OLD 


PRESENT*  TIMES 


I'rt' "  ;f  •'"  r 

•      ;- 


Pliiii|D  Gilbert  Hairier  ton 


u  < 


PARIS 


IN    OLD   AND    PRESENT   TIMES 

WITH  ESPECIAL   REFERENCE    TO    CHANGES  IN  ITS 
ARCHITECTURE    AND    TOPOGRAPHY 


BY 


PHILIP    GILBERT    HAMERTON 

Officier  cT  Academic 


WITH     MANY    ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 
1900 


Copyright,  1885, 
BY  ROBERTS  BROTHERS 


Copyright,  1900, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 


Stack 
Annex 

ic, 

lo? 


PREFACE. 


IT  is  probable  that  there  is  not  another  city  in  the 
whole  world  that  has  undergone  so  many  and  such 
great  changes  as  the  capital  of  France.  Those  of  us 
who  have  been  familiar  with  Paris  since  the  accession 
of  Louis  Napoleon  have  been  eye-witnesses  of  the  last 
of  these,  which  consisted  chiefly  in  improving  the 
means  of  communication  by  opening  wide  new  streets, 
and  in  erecting  vast  numbers  of  houses  of  a  new 
type.  From  the  sanitary  point  of  view  the  change 
was  most  desirable  and  circulation  was  made  incom- 
parably easier;  from  the  artistic  point  of  view  there 
was  a  balance  of  loss  and  gain,  as  the  old  streets  were 
not  always,  or  often,  worth  preserving,  while  the  new 
ones  have  always  some  pretension,  at  least  to  taste 
and  elegance,  and  many  new  buildings  are  really  good 
examples  of  modern  intelligence  and  art.  But  there  is 
a  certain  point  of  view  from  which  this  reconstruction 
of  an  ancient  city  was  entirely  to  be  regretted.  Archae- 
ologists deplored  the  effacement  of  a  thousand  land- 
marks, and  if  it  had  not  been  for  their  patient  labors 
in  preserving  memorials  of  the  former  city  on  paper, 
the  topography  of  it  would  have  been  as  completely 


iv  Preface. 

effaced  from  the  recollection  of  mankind  as  it  is  from 
the  actual  site.  Were  it  not  for  the  existence  of  a  very 
few  old  buildings  such  as  Notre  Dame,  the  Sainte 
Chapelle,  the  H6tel  de  Cluny,  and  one  or  two  other 
remnants  of  past  architectural  glories,  Paris  might  seem 
to  date  from  the  age  of  Louis  XIV. ;  and  even  the 
remaining  works  of  the  great  king  are  not  sufficiently 
numerous  to  give  an  aspect  to  the  city,  which  seems 
as  new  as  Boston  or  New  York,  —  I  had  almost  written, 
as  Chicago.  While  Avignon  and  Aiguesmortes  pre- 
serve their  ancient  walls,  the  enceinte  of  Paris  has  been 
repeatedly  demolished,  carried  farther  out,  and  recon- 
structed on  new  principles  of  fortification.  While  the 
palace  of  the  Popes  still  rears  its  colossal  mass  on  its 
rocky  height  near  the  Rhone,  and  withstands,  unshaken, 
the  unequalled  violence  of  the  mistral  that  sweeps  down 
upon  Avignon,  the  palace  of  the  mediaeval  kings  has 
almost  entirely  disappeared  from  the  island  in  the 
Seine,  and  the  old  Castle  of  the  Louvre  is  represented 
by  an  outline  in  white  stone  traced  in  the  pavement 
of  a  quadrangle.  Of  the  wall  of  Philippe- Auguste  the 
very  last  tower  has  long  since  disappeared,  and  the 
grim  fortress  of  the  Bastille  has  utterly  vanished  from 
its  site,  known  to  modern  Parisians  as  a  stopping-place 
for  omnibuses.  Nor  has  the  more  modern  palace  of 
the  Tuileries  escaped  a  similar  annihilation.  The  last 
stone  of  it  was  carted  away  not  long  since,  and  our  best 
record  of  its  ruin  is  a  little  study  or  picture  by  Meis- 
sonier.  Every  year  it  becomes  less  and  less  profitable 
to  visit  Paris  in  ignorance  of  its  past  history ;  and  there- 


Preface.  v 

fore  it  has  seemed  to  me  that  such  an  account  of  the 
city  as  I  should  care  to  write  must  include  constant 
reference  to  what  has  been,  as  well  as  a  sufficiently 
clear  description  of  what  is.  This  has  not  been  done 
before  in  our  language,  and  would  not  have  been  possi- 
ble now  if  the  admirable  labors  of  many  French  archae- 
ologists had  not  supplied  the  materials.  I  need  not 
add  that  whenever  anything  could  be  verified  by  per- 
sonal observation,  I  have  taken  the  trouble  to  see 
things  for  myself.  Paris  has  been  very  familiar  to 
me  for  nearly  thirty  years ;  but  in  spite  of  this  long 
intimacy  with  the  place,  I  went  to  stay  there  again  with 
a  view  especially  to  the  present  work. 

I  may  add  that,  although  I  have  written  little  hitherto 
about  architecture,  it  has  always  been  a  favorite  study 
of  mine,  and  I  have  neglected  no  opportunity  of  in- 
creasing such  knowledge  of  it  as  a  layman  may  possess. 
The  facts  about  the  history  and  construction  of  edifices 
given  in  the  present  volume  may,  I  believe,  always 
be  relied  upon ;  as  for  mere  opinions,  I  give  them  for 
what  they  may  be  worth.  The  best  way  is  for  a  critic 
to  say  quite  candidly  what  he  thinks,  but  not  to  set  up 
any  claim'  to  authority. 


CONTENTS. 


I.    INTRODUCTION i 

II.   LUTETIA 1 6 

III.  A  VOYAGE  ROUND  THE  ISLAND 34 

IV.  NOTRE  DAME  AND  THE  SAINTE  CHAPELLE  ...  59 
V.  THE  TUILERIES  AND  THE  LUXEMBOURG   ....  82 

VI.   THE  LOUVRE 104 

VII.   THE  H6TEL  DE  VILLE 125 

VIII.   THE  PANTHEON,  THE  INVALIDES,  AND  THE  MADE- 
LEINE      139 

IX.   ST.  EUSTACHE,  ST.  ETIENNE  DU  MONT,  AND  ST. 

SULPICE ....159 

X.  PARKS  AND  GARDENS 174 

XI.  MODERN  PARISIAN  ARCHITECTURE 197 

XII.  THE  STREETS 219 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


THE  HOTEL  DE  CLUNY Frontispiece 

TRANSEPT  OF  NOTRE  DAME 4 

OLD  HOUSE  WITH  TOURELLE 9 

THE  OLD   MAISON  DIEU,  AND   NORTH   TRANSEPT   OF 

NOTRE  DAME 14 

THE  FRIGIDARIUM  OF  THE  ROMAN  BATHS,  CALLED  LES 

THERMES 20 

THE  GRAND  CHATELET 28 

THE  TOUR  DE  NESLE.     FROM  THE  ETCHING  BY  CALLOT  30 

THE  LOUVRE  OF  PHILIPPE-AUGUSTE 32 

GARDEN  EAST  OF  NOTRE  DAME 40 

PONT  NOTRE  DAME,  i8TH  CENTURY 44 

THE  PUMP  NEAR  THE  PONT  NOTRE  DAME,   1861   .     .  46 

THE  PONT  NEUF  IN  1845 .  50 

THE  MORGUE  IN  1840 52 

THE  LITTLE  CHATELET,  TAKEN  FROM  THE  PETIT  PONT 

IN  1780 54 

THE  ARCHBISHOP'S  PALACE  IN  1650.     FROM  AN  ETCH- 
ING BY  ISRAEL  SYLVESTRE 56 

ANGLERS  ON  THE  QUAYS 58 

THE  APSE  OF  NOTRE  DAME Co 

TYMPANUM  OF  THE  PORTE  STE.  ANNE 64 

PlER   AND   ONE  OF  THE  DOORS   OF  THE   PORTE  STE. 

ANNE 66 

LES  TRIBUNES    ....          68 

THE  "POURTOUR" 70 


x  List  of  Illustrations. 

PAGE 

ROYAL  THANKSGIVING  IN  NOTRE  DAME,  1782    ...  74 
THE    OLD    COURT    OF    ACCOUNTS    AND    THE    SAINTE 

CHAPELLE 78 

SAINT  Louis  IN  THE  SAINTE  CHAPELLE 80 

THE  TUILERIES  IN  1837 96 

THE  LUXEMBOURG  AS  IT  WAS  BUILT 100 

THE  LOUVRE  IN  ITS  TRANSITION  STATE  FROM  GOTHIC 

TO  RENAISSANCE 104 

THE  LOUVRE,  FROM   THE   SEINE.     FROM  A  DRAWING 

BY  H.  TOUSSAINT 106 

DETAILS  BY  PIERRE  LESCOT  IN  THE  QUADRANGLE      .  107 

THE  LOUVRE 109 

THE    CLASSICAL    PAVILION   AND    THE   OLD    EASTERN 

TOWER no 

THE  INTERIOR  OF  THE  QUADRANGLE.     FROM  A  DRAW- 
ING BY  H.  TOUSSAINT 114 

QUADRANGLE  OF  THE  LOUVRE,  WITH  THE  STATUE  OF 
FRANCIS  I.,  PLACED   THERE   IN   1855,  AND   SINCE 

REMOVED 118 

THE   COLONNADE.     FROM   A   DRAWING   BY  H.  TOUS- 
SAINT    120 

AN  OLD  ROOM  IN  THE  LOUVRE 124 

FRONT  OF   THE   HOTEL   DE   VILLE   IN   THE  TIME   OF 

Louis  XIII 128 

THE  HOTEL  DE  VILLE  IN   1583.     FROM  A  DRAWING 

BY  JACQUES  CELLIER 130 

THE  HOTEL  DE  VILLE 132 

THE  GREAT  BALL-ROOM .     .  136 

THE  PANTHEON 142 

THE  PANTHEON  FROM  THE  GARDENS  OF  THE  LUXEM- 
BOURG        146 

THE  INVALIDES 152 

THE  MADELEINE 155 

THE  CHURCH  OF  ST.  EUSTACHE  .  160 


List  of  Illustrations.  xi 

PAGE 

CHURCH  OF  ST.  ETIENNE  DU  MONT.     FROM    SKETCH 

BY  A;  BRUNET-DEBAINES 162 

INTERIOR  OF  ST.  ETIENNE  Du  MONT 164 

WEST  FRONT  OF  ST.  ETIENNE  DU  MONT 168 

THE  CHURCH  OF  ST.  SULPICE 170 

GRANDE  ALLEE  DES  TUILERIES 181 

LAC  DES  BUTTES  CHAUMONT 183 

AVENUE  DES  CHAMPS  ELYSEES 186 

Au  JARDIN  DU  LUXEMBOURG 188 

LAC  DU  Bois  DE  BOULOGNE 190 

LA  NAUMACHIE,  —  PARC  DE  MONCEAU 192 

DOORWAY  OF  A  MODERN  HOUSE 204 

THE  OPERA.     SIDE  VIEW 206 

THE  OPERA.     THE  PRINCIPAL  FRONT 208 

INTERIOR  OF  THE  CHURCH  OF  ST.  AUGUSTINE  .     .     .  210 

THE  CHURCH  OF  ST.  AUGUSTINE 212 

INTERIOR  OF  THE  CHURCH  OF  LA  TRINITE   .     .     .     .  214 

THE  CHURCH  OF  LA  TRINITE 216 

BOULEVARD  ST.  GERMAIN 222 

RUE  ST.  ANDRE 226 

AVENUE  FRIEDLAND •  228 

HOTEL  DE  SENS 230 

THE  MAIRIE  AND  ST.  GERMAIN  L'AUXERROIS    .     .     .  234 


PARIS 

IN    OLD    AND    PRESENT    TIMES. 


I. 

INTRODUCTION. 

"XT  ATIONALITY  affects  our  estimates  of  every- 
A  ^i  thing,  but  most  especially  does  it  affect  our 
estimate  of  great  cities.  There  is  no  city  in  the  world 
that  does  not  stand  in  some  peculiar  relation  to  our 
own  nationality;  and  even  those  cities  that  seem  quite 
outside  of  it  are  still  seen  through  it,  as  through  an 
atmosphere  colored  by  our  national  prejudices  or  ob- 
scured by  our  national  varieties  of  ignorance. 

Again,  not  only  does  nationality  affect  our  estimates, 
but  our  own  individual  idiosyncrasy  affects  them  to  a 
degree  which  unthinking  persons  never  even  suspect. 
We  come  to  every  city  with  our  own  peculiar  constitu- 
tion, which  no  amount  of  education  can  ever  alter  fun- 
damentally ;  and  we  test  everything  in  the  place  by  its 
relation  to  our  own  mental  and  even  physical  needs. 
We  may  try  to  be  impartial,  to  get  at  some  sort  of 
abstract  truth  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  ourselves ; 


2  Paris. 

but  it  is  not  of  any  real  use.  There  is  a  certain  relation 
between  human  beings  and  places  which  determines,  in 
a  wonderfully  short  time,  to  what  degree  we  are  capable 
of  making  ourselves  at  home  in  them,  —  how  much  of 
each  place  belongs  to  us  by  reason  of  the  obscure 
natural  affinities. 

Before  entering  upon  this  great  subject,  Paris,  I  think 
it  will  not  be  a  waste  of  space,  or  a  useless  employment 
of  the  reader's  time,  if  I  show  in  what  way  our  estimate 
of  that  city  is  likely  to  be  affected  by  our  national  and 
our  personal  peculiarities. 

First,  as  to  nationality.  Englishmen  admire  Paris; 
they  speak  of  it  as  a  beautiful  city,  even  a  delightful 
city;  but  there  is  one  point  on  which  a  Frenchman's 
estimate  of  Paris  usually  differs  from  that  of  an  English- 
man. I  am  not  alluding  to  the  Frenchman's  patriotic 
affection  for  the  place ;  that,  of  course,  an  Englishman 
cannot  have,  and  can  only  realize  by  the  help  of  power- 
ful sympathies  and  a  lively  imagination.  I  am  alluding 
to  a  difference  in  the  impression  made  by  the  place  it- 
self on  the  mind  of  a  French  and  an  English  visitor. 
The  Englishman  thinks  that  Paris  is  pretty ;  the  French- 
man thinks  that  it  is  sublime.  The  Englishman  admits 
that  it  is  an  important  city,  though  only  of  moderate 
dimensions;  the  Frenchman  believes  it  to  be  an  im- 
mensity, and  uses  such  words  as  "huge"  and  "gigantic" 
with  reference  to  it,  as  we  do  with  reference  to  London. 
Victor  Hugo  compares  Paris  with  the  ocean,  and  affirms 
that  the  transition  from  one  to  the  other  does  not  in  any 
way  exalt  one's  ideas  of  the  infinite.  "  Attain  milieu 


Introduction.  3 

ritst  plus  vaste"  he  says,  very  willingly  leaving  the  much 
larger  British  capital  out  of  consideration.  For  him 
Paris  is  everywhere,  like  the  air,  because  it  is  ever 
present  in  his  thoughts.  "  On  regarde  la  mer,  et  on  voit 
Paris" 

We  Englishmen,  always  remembering  London,  and 
more  or  less  consciously  referring  every  city  to  that, 
are  very  liable  to  a  certain  form  of  positive  error  with 
regard  to  Paris,  against  which,  if  we  care  for  truth,  it 
is  well  to  put  ourselves  on  our  guard.  Most  things  in 
Paris  seem  to  us  on  rather  a  small  scale.  The  river 
seems  but  a  little  river,  as  we  so  easily  forget  its  length 
and  the  distance  of  Paris  from  the  sea ;  and  most  of  the 
buildings  that  Englishmen  care  to  visit  are  near  enough 
to  their  usual  haunts  to  produce  the  impression  that  the 
town  itself  is  small.  The  Louvre,  the  Luxembourg, 
Notre  Dame,  the  Madeleine,  the  Opera,  and  the  Palais 
de  T Industrie,  are  included  within  that  conveniently  cen- 
tral space  which  to  the  Englishman  is  Paris.  Even  the 
very  elegance  of  the  place  is  against  it,  insomuch  as  it 
produces  an  impression  of  slightness.  A  great  deal  of 
very  substantial  building  has  been  done  in  Paris  at  all 
times,  and  especially  since  the  accession  of  Napoleon 
III. ;  yet  how  little  this  substantial  quality  of  Parisian 
building  is  appreciated  by  the  ordinary  English  visitor  ! 
I  remember  making  some  remark  to  an  Englishman  on 
the  good  fortune  of  the  Parisians  in  possessing  such  ex- 
cellent stone,  and  on  their  liberal  use  of  it,  and  on  its 
happy  adaptability  to  the  purpose  of  the  carver.  The 
only  answer  I  got  was  a  laugh  at  my  own  simplicity. 


4  Parts. 

"  That  white  stuff  is  not  stone  at  all;  it's  only  stucco  !  '" 
This  observer  had  seen  hundreds  of  carvers  chiselling 
that  stone,  yet  he  went  back  to  London  complacently 
believing  that  all  its  ornaments  were  cast.  Here  you 
have  a  striking  example  of  patriotic  error,  —  the  stone 
of  a  foreign  city  believed  to  be  stucco  because  stucco 
is  a  flimsy  material,  and  because  it  was  not  agreeable 
to  recognize  in  foreign  work  the  qualities  of  soundness 
and  truth.  Even  in  this  mistake  may  be  traced  the 
pre-disposing  influence  of  London.  Stucco  has  been 
used  in  very  large  quantities  in  London ;  and  the  stone 
employed  there  in  public  buildings,  though  of  various 
kinds,  is  never  of  the  kind  most  extensively  employed 
in  Paris. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  dwell  any  longer  upon  what 
Mr.  Herbert  Spencer  would  call  the  "  patriotic  bias." 
French  people  bring  the  same  bias  with  them  into  Eng- 
land, and  write  accounts  of  London  with  astounding 
inaccuracy.  In  one  of  the  most  recent  of  these  there 
occurred  a  description  of  the  House  of  Lords,  giving  no 
idea  whatever  of  its  architecture,  and  stating  that  it  was 
not  bigger  than  an  ordinary  council-room  in  a  provincial 
mairie)-  Many  things  in  London  are  as  heartily  de- 
spised by  intelligent  Englishmen  as  they  can  possibly 
be  by  foreigners,  but  the  foreigner  shows  his  own  patri- 
otic bias  by  dwelling  upon  them,  and  by  slighting  allu- 

1  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the  Frenchman's  notions  of  size  had 
been  upset  by  passing  through  Westminster  Hall ;  but  the  patriotic  bias 
in  his  account  of  the  Houses  of  Parliament  was  shown  by  his  omission 
of  architectural  appreciation,  and  by  his  extreme  readiness  to  describe 
what  he  supposed  to  be  eccentricities  or  defects. 


TRANSEPT   OF   NOTRE   DAME. 


Introduction.  5 

sions  to  what  is  really  good  and  noble  in  London,  —  for 
example,  when  he  passes  by  St.  Paul's  as  a  feeble  imita- 
tion of  St.  Peter's  at  Rome,  or  speaks  of  the  Law  Courts 
as  a  medley  of  Gothic  details,  without  doing  justice  to 
the  originality  of  either  Wren  or  Street.  A  French 
critic  is  usually  so  horrified  by  London  smoke  and  by 
the  ugliness  of  our  ordinary  houses,  that  he  becomes 
incapable  of  perceiving  beauty  even  where  it  really  ex- 
ists, and  confounds  all  things  together  in  undiscrimi- 
nating,  unsparing  condemnation. 

From  these  influences  of  nationality  I  do  not  hope  to 
be  wholly  free,  though  at  the  same  time  I  am  neither 
conscious  of  any  patriotic  bias  against  the  capital  of 
France,  nor  of  any  anti-patriotic  bias  in  its  favor.  I  have 
been  very  familiarly  acquainted  with  Paris  for  twenty- 
seven  years,  and  know  both  its  beauties  and  its  defects. 
The  only  strong  national  prejudice  against  it  which  I 
still  retain  is  a  rooted  prejudice  in  favor  of  the  old  Eng- 
lish system  of  living  in  separate  houses  as  against  the 
French  system  of  living  on  flats.  It  may  seem  at  first 
sight  that  this  has  very  little  to  do  with  the  artistic 
aspects  of  Paris,  which  will  be  the  subject  of  the  present 
series  of  papers ;  but,  in  truth,  the  connection  between 
them  is  very  close.  The  magnificence  of  modern  Pari- 
sian streets  is  almost  entirely  due  to  the  flat  system  ;  the 
apparent  meanness  of  English  towns  is  due  to  our  sepa- 
rate houses.  I  am  quite  aware  of  this ;  and  I  know  at 
the  same  time  that  where  land  is  expensive,  as  it  must 
be  in  every  great  city,  the  flat  system  is  the  one  which 
allows  the  widest  and  most  spacious  streets,  and  gives 


6  Paris. 

the  most  air  and  sunshine  to  the  inhabitants.  Still, 
while  admitting  the  convenience  of  the  arrangement,  its 
reasonableness,  and  the  architectural  grandeur  of  the 
combinations  that  result  from  it,  I  am  Englishman 
enough  to  prefer,  in  my  heart  of  hearts,  a  quiet  English 
house  with  a  ground-floor  and  one  upper  storey,  or  two 
at  the  very  utmost,  to  the  most  imposing  and  preten- 
tious pile  of  towering  appartements  that  the  skill  of 
a  French  architect  ever  devised  or  the  wealth  of  an 
American  colony  ever  rented.  I  revisited  the  north  of 
England  towards  the  close  of  1882,  and  remember 
thinking,  at  Burnley,  that  one  of  the  clean  little  houses 
that  are  now  built  there  for  workpeople,  each  with  its 
own  independent  entrance  and  ready  access  to  the 
street,  would  be  pleasanter  to  live  in  than  an  expensive 
appartement  au  quatrihne  on  one  of  the  finest  boulevards 
of  Paris.  This  no  doubt  is  an  English  prejudice ;  but 
one  cannot  denationalize  oneself  altogether. 

With  regard  to  personal  as  distinct  from  national 
prejudices,  the  only  important  one  that  I  am  conscious 
of  is  a  strong  dislike  to  such  extension  of  size  in  towns 
as  that  which  makes  them  rather  regions  covered  with 
houses  than  creations  complete  in  themselves.  A  city 
of  small  size  (what  a  Londoner  would  call  insignificant),, 
well  situated  in  beautiful  scenery,  with  ready  access  to 
the  country  from  all  its  streets,  and  itself  so  constructed 
that  its  principal  edifices  compose  happily  with  the 
landscape,  and  adorn  it,  —  this  is  my  ideal  of  a  town; 
an  ideal  not  so  far  from  a  possible  reality,  but  that  there 
are  actually  some  existing  little  cities  in  France  and 


Introduction.  7 

Italy  that  respond  to  it.  The  complete  opposite  of  this 
ideal  is  London,  which  is  not  a  town,  but  a  spreading 
and  gathering  of  population,  like  irregular  fungoid 
growths  joining  together  by  their  edges  till  a  great 
space  is  ultimately  covered  by  them,  while  there  seems 
to  be  no  reason  why  they  should  not  spread  indefinitely 
on  every  side.  There  is  nothing,  on  the  outskirts  of 
London,  of  that  pretty,  sudden  contrast  between  town 
and  country  which  gives  such  charm  to  both  when  the 
real  green  country,  with  its  refreshment  of  rural  peace, 
comes  close  up  to  the  gray  walls  of  the  city,  and  shades 
them  with  its  trees  and  adorns  them  with  its  flowers ; 
when  the  citizen  can  be  at  his  business  in  the  heart  of 
the  city  at  sunset  and  in  the  quiet  fields  before  the  gold 
has  faded  from  the  evening  sky.  That  time  is  past  for 
Paris  as  for  London ;  but  some  names  of  places  still 
remain  to  recall  rural  associations.  St.  Germain-des- 
PrJs,  now  close  to  a  noisy  boulevard,  was  once  an 
abbey-church  among  meadows;  Notre  Dame  des  CJiamps 
was  really  Our  Lady  of  the  Fields ;  and  the  Rue  Naive 
des  Petits  Champs,  a  new  street  in  little  fields.  Prim- 
roses may  once  have  been  found  in  the  Impasse  des 
Primeveres,  and  vines  in  the  Impasse  des  Vignes.  The 
country  came  close  up  to  the  smaller  Paris  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages,  and  round  about  it  there  were  fortresses,  mon- 
asteries, and  villages,  islanded  in  a  sea  of  pasturage, 
corn,  and  vines.  Wall  after  wall  was  found  to  be  too 
narrow  a  boundary,  till  M.  Thiers  built  the  present  for- 
tifications, which  the  municipal  council,  with  the  con- 
sent of  the  military  authorities,  are  already  disposed  to 


8  Paris. 

demolish,  except  the  detached  forts.  This  continual 
expansion  of  Paris  beyond  its  boundaries,  this  continual 
invasion  of  the  surrounding  country,  has  given  to  the 
city  that  ill-defined  zone  of  cheap  and  hasty  construc- 
tion which  surrounds  every  growing  town.  There  is  no 
longer  a  complete  Paris,  that  can  be  easily  seen  at  once. 
Giffard's  captive  balloon  gave  the  means  of  seeing  the 
present  Paris,  which  presented  the  appearance  of  a  vast 
basin  covered  with  houses  that  died  away  into  the  sur- 
rounding country,  and  were  divided  by  a  many-bridged 
river ;  but  the  balloon  was  wrecked  by  a  tempest,  and 
now  it  is  only  the  adventurous  free  aeronauts  who,  as 
they  drift  about  in  the  upper  air  at  the  wind's  will,  can 
see  the  great  city  of  the  Seine. 

It  is  a  convenience  to  divide  history  into  epochs, 
which  we  select  to  mark  the  accomplishment  of  great 
changes ;  but  this  habit  of  arbitrary  division  conveys  in 
one  way  a  false  impression  to  the  mind.  The  changes 
seem  complete  when  we  speak  inaccurately  and  gen- 
erally ;  but  if  we  look  carefully  and  strictly  into  the  mat- 
ter we  shall  find  that  every  age  has  left  its  peculiar  work 
unfinished,  and  has  left  it  to  be  continued  by  the  next 
age,  which,  in  its  own  turn,  has  begun  something  else, 
and  left  that  to  be  carried  on  by  its  successor.  There 
appears  to  be  no  such  thing  as  finality  in  the  history  of 
a  great  city ;  and,  indeed,  we  may  conclude  from  what 
has  been  actually  done  by  past  generations,  that  there 
is  no  incentive  to  important  public  works  so  powerful 
as  the  continual  appeal  of  half-executed  projects.  The 
stones  of  many  a  building  call  as  loudly  as  if  they  could 


Introduction. 


OLD   HOUSE   WITH   TOURELLE. 


really  speak ;  they  call  not  only  for  care  in  their  preser- 
vation, but  for  additions  to  make  them  look  less  forlorn. 
Sometimes  too  much  is  done ;  mistakes  are  committed 


i  o  Paris. 

that  need  correction,  and  new  mistakes  are  made  in  try- 
ing to  rectify  old  ones,  or  a  certain  thing  is  built  that 
would  have  been  complete  in  itself  if  it  could  only  have 
been  let  alone ;  but  it  was  not  big  enough  for  subse- 
quent practical  needs,  and  so  additions  were  made 
which  destroyed  its  proportion,  as  if  the  wings  of  an 
eagle  were  fastened  to  a  sparrow-hawk.  Only  a  very 
few  buildings,  either  in  Paris  or  any  other  modern  city, 
have  possessed  the  virtue  of  unity. 

We  ourselves  have  witnessed  one  of  the  most  com- 
plete transformations  of  Paris.  We  have  seen  the  Paris 
of  Louis-Philippe  transformed  into  that  of  Napoleon 
III. ;  but  even  this,  the  greatest  change  ever  operated 
in  so  short  a  time,  had  been  prepared  for,  as  I  shall 
demonstrate  when  we  reach  that  portion  of  our  subject, 
by  architectural  tendencies  and  practical  necessities 
which  had  been  seen  and  felt  much  earlier.  A  much 
more  absolute  distinction  exists  between  Gothic  Paris 
and  the  Paris  of  the  Renaissance.  There,  indeed,  was 
a  radical  change,  right  and  necessary  as  preparing  the 
way  for  modern  life,  but  at  the  same  time  exceed- 
ingly destructive,  and  not  by  any  means  generally  favor- 
able to  grace  or  beauty  in  its  beginnings.  It  would  be 
easy  to  describe  the  Paris  of  Louis  XI.  in  very  eloquent 
language,  by  the  simple  process  of  bringing  every 
beauty  into  brilliant  relief  and  hiding  every  defect,  and 
it  would  be  not  less  easy  to  make  it  appear  that  the 
Paris  of  Louis  XIV.  was  a  heavy  and  expensive  mis- 
take ;  but  we  shall  have  no  controversial  purpose  to 
answer  in  this  book.  The  course  of  events  by  which  a 


Introduction.  1 1 

beautiful  and  convenient  modern  city  has  replaced  a  pic- 
turesque mediaeval  one,  is  full  of  interest  to  the  student, 
but  need  not  awaken  in  him  any  very  deep  sentiment  of 
regret,  unless  it  be  for  this  or  that  particular  building 
which  he  knows  to  have  once  stood  where  omnibuses 
are  now  running  on  the  Boulevard,  or  cafes  display 
their  vulgar  luxury  close  by.  This  is  the  way  in  which 
our  loss  is  most  effectually  brought  home  to  us.  There 
is  the  H6tel  de  Cluny,  for  example,  which  has  been  pre- 
served almost  by  miracle  down  to  the  present  time,  and 
is  now  made  as  safe  for  the  future,  by  legislative  protec- 
tion, as  any  human  work  well  can  be.  Go  through  that 
admirable  dwelling,  so  charming  in  its  variety,  without 
any  violation  of  harmony,  so  unostentatious  and  yet  so 
beautiful,  so  well  adapted  to  the  needs  of  honorable  and 
peaceful  human  life,  and  then  calculate  how  many  fur- 
longs of  monotonous  modern  houses  in  the  Rue  de 
Rivoli  might  possibly  be  accepted  as  an  equivalent  for 
it.  The  Hotel  de  Cluny  is  the  best  of  the  old  houses 
now  remaining,  almost  the  only  important  one  that  is 
still  anything  better  than  a  fragment;  but  historical  stu- 
dents go  from  site  to  site,  where  the  best  of  the  old 
dwellings  used  to  be,  and  then,  finding  nothing  equivalent 
in  their  places,  they  lament  what  seems  to  them  a  blank, 
uncompensated  loss.  The  loss  is  seldom  compensated 
for  on  the  spot,  or  in  anything  of  the  same  kind ;  but 
there  is  a  broader  and  more  general  compensation  in 
the  grandeur  of  the  modern  city.  If  Paris  had  been 
treated  somewhat  tenderly,  as  Bourges  has  been,  if  the 
mediaeval  houses  had  been  generally  preserved,  and 


1 2  Paris. 

consequently  the  mediaeval  streets,  the  houses  keeping 
their  external  appearance  and  being  adapted  to  modern 
requirements  by  internal  alterations  only,  then  indeed 
the  city  would  have  been  a  pleasant  place  for  the  inves- 
tigations of  the  artist  and  the  archaeologist;  but  com- 
munication would  have  been  so  difficult  that  the  life-blood 
of  a  great  and  populous  modern  city  could  never  have 
circulated  through  such  narrow  and  frequently  con- 
stricted arteries.  Nor  has  the  destruction  been  quite 
absolutely  complete.  Notre  Dame  and  the  Sainte 
Chapelle  have  been  preserved  at  least  as  well  as 
Westminster  Abbey  and  the  Temple  Church,  while  the 
tower  of  St.  Jacques  is  left  standing,  when  the  church 
itself  is  gone.  The  less  important  remains  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  a  small  house  or  a  tourelle  here  and  there,  were 
rapidly  disappearing  in  Meryon's  time,  and  with  few 
exceptions  have  vanished  utterly  since. 

In  Victor  Hugo's  "  Notre  Dame  de  Paris,"  written  in 
1830,  after  a  long  and  brilliant  description  of  Paris  in 
the  Middle  Ages,  there  comes  a  prediction  of  evil  omen 
which  has  happily  not  been  realized.  "  Our  fathers,"  he 
says,  "  had  a  Paris  of  stone ;  our  sons  will  have  a  Paris 
of  plaster." 

"The  Paris  of  the  present  day  (1830)  has  no  general  charac- 
ter. It  is  a  collection  of  specimens  of  different  ages,  and  the 
finest  have  disappeared.  The  capital  increases  only  in  houses  — 
and  what  houses  !  At  this  rate  there  will  be  a  new  Paris  every 
fifty  years.  And  then  the  historical  significance  of  its  archi- 
tecture is  effaced  daily.  Buildings  of  importance  become  rarer 
and  rarer,  and  it  seems  as  if  we  could  see  them  gradually  sink- 
ing —  drowned  in  the  flood  of  houses.  Our  fathers  had  a  Paris 
of  stone  ;  our  sons  will  have  a  Paris  of  plaster." 


Introduction.  13 

This  city  of  plaster  might  have  filled  the  whole  space 
within  the  fortifications  to-day  if  the  railways  had  not 
brought  stone  so  easily  from  a  distance ;  but  by  a  happy 
coincidence  the  colossal  building  enterprises  of  Napoleon 
III.  were  not  undertaken  before  the  principal  lines  of 
railway  had  been  constructed,  and  by  their  means,  not 
stone  only,  but  vast  quantities  of  wood  and  other  ma- 
terials were  brought  readily  to  hand.  At  the  same 
time  the  feeling,  which  an  enemy  calls  vanity  and  a 
friend  self-respect,  led  the  sovereign  and  the  municipal 
authorities  of  that  time  to  desire  that  the  new  Paris 
should  be  a  credit  to  them,  —  one  of  the  principal  glo- 
ries of  what  was  intended  to  be  a  very  brilliant  reign. 
The  consequence  has  been  the  reverse  of  what  Victor 
Hugo  feared.  The  Paris  of  plaster  was  the  capital  of 
Charles  X.  and  of  Louis-Philippe.  Miles  and  miles  of 
new  streets  were  driven  through  dense  clusters  of  houses 
so  slight  and  poor  in  construction  that  they  only  kept 
themselves  from  falling  by  leaning  against  each  other, 
while  they  did  not  possess  the  slightest  architectural 
merit.  In  the  new  streets  the  houses  were  built  of 
stone,  and  the  work  was  done  to  endure.  Of  this  new 
stone  Paris  we  shall  have  much  to  say  in  this  volume. 
The  greatest  fault  of  it  is  a  certain  monotony;  but 
this  was  especially  the  fault  of  the  first  attempts  in 
the  new  style. 

During  the  later  years  of  Napoleon  III.,  and  since  his 
time,  there  has  been  more  variety  in  Parisian  street  archi- 
tecture, though  it  is  true  that  the  variety  is  often  rather 
in  the  invention  of  detail  than  in  the  conception  of 


1 4  Paris. 

edifices.  There  are  immense  quantities  of  good  orna- 
mental sculpture,  by  no  means  slavish  in  the  copying  of 
set  types,  but  full  of  delicate  fancy,  and  really  of  our  own 
time,  though  deriving  its  origin  from  the  best  French 
Renaissance.  In  a  word,  there  is  really  a  living  street 
architecture  in  Paris  in  which  clever  architects  employ 
ingenious  artists  and  highly  trained  craftsmen  to  work 
upon  the  best  materials.  What  remains  true  in  Victor 
Hugo's  criticism  is,  that  the  great  height  of  these  mod- 
ern houses,  and  their  enormous  quantity,  make  public 
buildings  seem  as  if  they  were  drowned  among  them. 
All  the  churches  in  Paris,  not  excepting  Notre  Dame, 
have  been  diminished  by  gigantic  modern  house-build- 
ing; just  as  a  great  injury  has  been  done  to  the  National 
Gallery,  in  London,  notwithstanding  its  very  favorable 
site,  by  the  neighborhood  of  the  Grand  Hotel.  We 
remember  the  time  when  the  Nelson  Column  used  to 
appear  unnecessarily  high,  but  it  is  not  an  inch  too  high 
at  present;  and  we  all  know  what  a  deplorable  effect 
has  been  produced  upon  the  towers  of  Westminster 
Abbey  by  the  tall  new  houses  in  their  neighborhood. 
So  the  greater  decorative  enrichments  of  modern  build- 
ings have  often  made  an  older  edifice  look  poor,  as 
Westminster  Hall  was  externally  annihilated  by  the 
panelled  walls  of  the  new  palace,  and  the  old  Tuileries 
made  to  look  poverty-stricken  beside  the  massive  orna- 
ments of  the  new  Pavilion  de  Flore.  Hence  it  is  a 
most  dangerous  time  for  the  public  buildings  in  any 
city  when  the  people  are  beginning  to  take  a  delight 
in  lofty  houses  and  palatial  hotels.  Nor  is  this  danger 


sftff^S  ^  &< 

il-**^:?^-;.^ 


^^^^S^^^i/SffflEra  iF^GBPii?  fi^ll,1 


Introduction.  1 5 

confined  to  cities  only;  an  old  building  of  moderate 
dimensions,  even  in  the  country,  may  be  reduced  to 
nothing  by  a  large  new  one  erected  near  enough  to  it 
for  comparison.  They  tell  me  that  a  great  hotel  has 
been  set  up  very  near  Kilchurn  Castle.  The  only  tol- 
erable thing  near  the  moderately  sized  castles  of  the 
Highlands  is  a  lowly  thatched  Cottage,  with  green  moss 
on  its  roof,  and  blue  peat-reek  rising  through  a  hole 
in  it. 


LUTETIA. 

IT  is  curious  that  the  sites  of  the  most  important  cities 
in  the  old  world  should  generally  have  been  deter- 
mined by  the  choice  made  by  a  barbarous  tribe  thou- 
sands of  years  ago,  with  a  view  to  its  own  security,  and 
that  this  choice  made  by  barbarians  should  have  settled 
the  matter  so  irrevocably  that  succeeding  generations 
have  had  to  do  the  best  they  could  with  the  same  posi- 
tion, well  chosen  for  the  needs  of  its  first  occupants,  but 
often  ill  chosen  for  the  latest.  The  selection  of  Paris 
as  the  site  of  the  future  capital  of  France  depended  on 
the  practical  wisdom  of  some  prehistoric  savages,  who 
found  that  islands  in  the  river  were  the  safest  places  to 
be  had  in  that  part  of  the  country.  There  was  one 
large  island,  and  a  few  smaller  ones,  in  the  midst  of  the 
tract  of  country  now  occupied  by  Paris,  and  there  is 
evidence  that  some  prehistoric  tribe  used  these  islands 
for  a  protected  dwelling-place.  After  them  came  the 
Gauls,  with  a  far  higher  degree  of  civilization  and  a 
rather  advanced  military  art,  especially  in  defensive  ar- 
rangements. The  Gaulish  oppidum  was  not  what  we 
understand  by  a  city,  even  when  the  city  is  fortified ;  it 
was  simply  a  place  of  refuge,  in  some  situation  naturally 


Lutetia.  1 7 

difficult  of  access,  either  from  steepness,  as  in  hilly 
countries,  or  from  bogs  and  water  in  more  level  ones. 
The  Gauls  preferred  a  steep  hill  to  anything  else  as  the 
site  of  one  of  their  great  forts  ;  but  where  they  had  not 
a  hill  high  enough  and  steep  enough  for  their  purpose, 
they  were  glad  of  a  piece  of  solid  ground  in  the  middle 
of  a  marsh,  or  an  island  in  a  river.  The  island  on  which 
Notre  Dame  is  now  situated  appears  to  have  answered 
their  purpose,  and  for  long  afterwards  its  defensive 
value  was  of  some  consequence ;  but  I  need  hardly  ob- 
serve that  when  Paris  was  besieged  by  the  Germans  in 
1870,  it  did  not  signify  in  the  least  whether  the  central 
part  of  the  city  was  on  an  island  or  not.  Paris  has  so 
immensely  outgrown  its  first  insular  beginning,  that  its 
present  military  defences  are  a  ring  of  forts  far  away 
out  in  the  country  on  all  sides.  I  am  rather  inclined  to 
believe  that  in  this  extension  we  may  see  a  prototype  of 
Great  Britain,  scarcely  to  be  considered  an  island  since 
her  Colonial  Empire  has  become  so  vast  as  to  give  her 
frontiers  inside  three  continents. 

The  numbers  of  bridges  in  Paris  make  the  islands  as 
much  a  part  of  the  town  as  any  other  part,  and  indeed  we 
are  hardly  sensible  that  they  are  islands  at  all.  But  not 
only  was  the  Gaulish  oppidum  insular,  the  Gallo-Roman 
city  of  Lutetia  was  so  too ;  and  there  is  every  reason  to 
believe  that  it  presented  rather  a  beautiful  appearance 
as  seen  from  the  surrounding  country.  In  Hoffbauer's, 
valuable  work  on  "  Paris  a  travers  les  Ages,"  to  which  I 
am  under  great  obligations  for  archaeological  details, 
not  readily  accessible  elsewhere,  there  is  a  careful  draw- 


1 8  Paris. 

ing  of  Lutetia  as  it  must  have  appeared  from  the  aque- 
duct of  Arcueil,  with  Montmartre,  then  the  Hill  of  Mars, 
in  the  distance.  The  first  impression  one  receives  is 
that,  compared  with  mediaeval  Paris,  Lutetia  must  have 
had  a  strangely  modern  look ;  but  the  fact  is,  that  since 
the  Renaissance  we  have  got  so  thoroughly  used  to 
classic  forms  that  we  are  really  at  home  in  them,  and  it 
is  positively  more  natural  for  us  to  build  (with  certain 
modifications)  like  the  ancient  Romans  than  like  our 
own  mediaeval  ancestors.  The  aqueduct  of  Arcueil  in 
M.  Hoffbauer's  drawing  reminds  one  of  a  suburban  rail- 
way viaduct;  the  Roman  villas  among  the  trees  in  the 
valley  are  in  outward  appearance  not  very  unlike  many 
French  and  Italian  houses  of  the  present  day;  and  if 
Lutetia  on  her  island  has  an  aspect  rather  unsatisfying 
to  modern  eyes,  it  is  more  because  there  are  neither 
domes  nor  spires  nor  any  lofty  towers,  than  because 
the  edifices  themselves  are  contrary  to  our  taste. 

The  Gallo-Roman  city  of  Lutetia  was  not  absolutely 
confined  to  the  island.  That  was  the  stronghold,  but 
there  were  important  buildings  outside  of  it,  especially 
to  the  southward.  The  stronghold  on  the  island  was  not 
fortified  in  the  early  Roman  time;  a  wall  of  defence 
was  built  round  it  only  in  the  beginning  of  the  fifth  cen- 
tury after  Christ.  There  were  at  least  two  great  Roman 
palaces,  one  on  the  island  where  the  Palace  of  Justice 
now  is,  and  another  on  the  mainland  of  vast  dimensions, 
the  west  end  of  which  was  situated  in  what  is  now  the 
garden  of  the  Hotel  de  Cluny.  That  in  the  island  had 
a  sort  of  open  gallery  or  colonnade  on  the  river-side ; 


Lutetia.  19 

and  there  is  curious  evidence,  in  some  of  the  columns 
which  have  been  recovered,  that  the  boatmen  were 
allowed  to  make  use  of  them  to  haul  and  fasten  their 
craft,  for  near  the  bases  we  find  deep  grooves  worn  by 
the  ropes.  That  this  Roman  palace  contained  large 
rooms  was  proved  beyond  a  doubt  when  their  founda- 
tions were  laid  bare  during  the  modern  alterations  in 
the  Palais  de  Justice.  The  discoverers  were  even  fortu- 
nate enough  to  come  upon  painted  decorations,  a  speci- 
men of  which  they  were  able  to  remove  from  the  wall, 
and  it  is  now  preserved  in  the  museum  at  the  Hotel  de 
Cluny.  Little  more  than  this  is  now  known  about  the 
Roman  palace  on  the  island.  As  its  site  was  used  long 
afterwards  for  royal  dwellings,  the  Roman  building 
itself  may  have  been  preserved  for  a  long  time,  and 
have  undergone  a  long  series  of  alterations  before  it 
was  finally  replaced  by  a  Gothic  one.  There  have  been 
great  changes  in  the  island  since  Roman  times.  There 
were  no  buildings  in  Lutetia  to  the  westward  of  the 
palace,  as  its  gardens  went  to  what  was  then  the  western 
extremity  of  the  island.  They  are  now  covered  by  the 
Prefecture  de  Police.  In  the  times  of  Lutetia,  and  for 
centuries  afterwards,  the  island  came  to  an  end  in  what 
is  now  the  widest  part  of  the  Place  Dauphine,  and  there 
were  two  smaller  islands  side  by  side  beyond  that, 
which  have  since  been  joined  to  the  large  one.  The 
narrow  end  of  the  Place  Dauphine  is  on  one  of  these 
islands,  and  the  houses  on  the  left  (as  you  look  down 
the  river)  are  partly  built  upon  the  other.  There  was 
also  a  long,  narrow  strip  of  an  island  on  the  left  side  of 


2O  Paris. 

the  larger  one,  and  the  narrow  channel  which  isolated 
this  strip  of  land  has  since  been  filled  up,  so  that  the 
great  island  has  annexed  three  islets  in  all.  It  has  also 
been  considerably  enlarged  by  quays  built  out  into  the 
river,  especially  at  the  east  end,  where  much  ground 
has  been  gained  towards  the  Pont  de  1'Archeveche  and 
the  Pont  St.  Louis.  The  south  side  of  Notre  Dame  is 
built  upon  the  Roman  wall,  which  it  follows  irregularly. 
The  Forum  is  supposed  to  have  occupied  ground  under 
the  present  barracks  of  the  Republican  Guard.  Lutetia 
had  one  bridge  over  the  narrow  arm  of  the  Seine,  and 
another  over  the  wider,  but  that  was  all.  At  present 
the  island  is  connected  with  the  mainland  by  ten  bridges, 
if  you  count  the  Pont  Neuf  as  two,  because  it  crosses 
the  two  arms  of  the  river. 

Nobody  knows  who  built  the  great  palace  to  the 
south  which  bears  the  name  of  the  Emperor  Julian,  and 
has  long  been  called  Les  Thermes.  Some  important 
remains  of  this  are  still  visible  and  are  likely  to  be  pre- 
served, being  classed  as  historical  monuments.  The 
great  hall,  which  every  visitor  will  remember,  and  which 
used  to  be  the  frigidarium  of  the  baths,  is  one  of  the 
most  impressive  Roman  remains  still  to  be  seen  out  of 
Italy.  It  is  extremely  plain,  except  the  sculptured 
prows  of  vessels  from  which  the  vault  springs ;  but  in 
Roman  times  its  broad  and  simple  surfaces  of  wall  and 
vault  would  no  doubt  be  covered  with  stucco  and  deco- 
rated with  some  kind  of  mural  painting,  and  there  must 
have  been  a  marble  floor.  It  is  curious  that  we  who 
erect  much  larger  buildings  (though  the  size  of  this  is 


THE  FRIGIDARIUM   OF   THE   ROMAN   BATHS,    CALLED   LES   THERMES. 


Lutetta.  21 

considerable)  should  be,  as  we  are,  so  deeply  impressed 
by  the  power  and  magificence  of  the  ancient  Romans 
when  we  enter  it ;  but  this  may  be  attributed  to  its  an- 
tiquity. An  Englishman  first  coming  to  it  from  England 
feels  as  an  American  may  feel  in  a  mediaeval  cathedral ; 
all  the  buildings  he  has  ever  entered  are  things  of  yes- 
terday in  comparison  with  this.  There  is  something, 
too,  which  commands  our  admiration  in  the  resistance 
to  ill  usage  as  well  as  to  mere  time.  The  place  has 
been  stripped  bare.  It  has  even  been  made  to  carry  a 
garden  on  the  top  of  it,  and  has  been  used  as  a  store- 
house for  merchandise;  yet  still  it  stands,  firm  and 
strong,  and  sure  to  outlast  all  the  delicate  Gothic  chap- 
els in  France  unless  they  were  constantly  repaired. 
The  other  remains  of  the  baths,  without  being  so  well 
preserved  as  the  great  frigidarium,  are  still  sufficiently 
so  to  permit  detailed  recognition.  The  hot  and  cold 
baths,  the  swimming-bath,  the  aqueduct,  the  place  for 
the  heating  apparatus,  are  all  visible.  It  is  believed 
that  their  preservation  was  due  for  a  long  time  to  the 
persistence  of  Roman  customs  among  the  Christianized 
Gauls,  including  of  course  the  luxurious  and  cleanly 
custom  of  bathing  according  to  the  rules  of  art. 

Besides  what  remains  of  the  baths,  three  rooms 
belonging  to  the  ancient  palace  are  still  in  existence, 
and  are  used  as  part  of  the  Cluny  Museum.  The  lost 
vaults  of  the  two  larger  ones  have  been  replaced  by 
modern  roofs,  but  the  small  room  is  still  entire.  The 
foundations  of  a  part  of  the  Roman  palace  still  exist 
under  the  Hotel  de  Cluny. 


22  Paris, 

"  An  inscription,"  says  M.  Lenoir,  "placed  in  the  courtyard  of 
the  old  convent  of  the  Mathurins  commemorated  the  discovery 
of  Roman  remains  in  continuation  of  those  under  the  Hotel  de 
Cluny,  and  marked  their  extent  almost  to  the  monastery.  On 
the  Rue  des  Mathurins  the  discoveries  have  been  extensive,  and 
include —  i,  a  great  room  twelve  metres  square,  which  has  lost 
its  vault  (this  is  annexed  to  the  Hotel  de  Cluny)  ;  2,  the  under- 
structure  of  two  great  rooms,  fifteen  metres  by  eight,  running 
parallel  from  north  to  south ;  3,  a  larger  room  than  any  of 
these,  measuring  twenty-four  metres  by  twelve.  Its  northern  ex- 
tremity (between  two  buildings  which  still  exist)  is  ended  by  a 
curved  wall  like  that  of  a  Roman  basilica.  Possibly  it  may  be 
what  remains  of  the  consistorium  mentioned  by  Ammianus 
Marcellinus." 

It  is  beyond  the  province  of  this  little  work  to  follow 
out  archaeological  discoveries  in  minute  detail,  but 
enough  has  been  said  to  show  that  the  southern  palace 
was  a  building  of  great  importance.  It  is  believed  to 
have  been  destroyed  by  the  Normans  in  the  ninth 
century. 

Like  other  great  cities  of  Roman  Gaul,  Lutetia  had 
her  amphitheatre.  The  ruins  of  it  remained  down  to 
the  twelfth  century,  or  were  mentioned  at  that  time. 
Since  then  there  survived  a  vague  tradition  about  its 
locality,  but  all  doubts  were  set  at  rest  when  in  1869  an 
important  new  street  was  cut  on  the  south  side  of  Paris, 
the  street  now  called  the  Rue  Monge.  The  workmen 
laid  bare  half  the  foundations  of  the  amphitheatre,  and 
the  other  half  still  remains  under  the  modern  houses. 
Much  to  the  grief  of  the  antiquaries,  that  half  of  the 
amphitheatre  which  was  exposed  to  view  had  to  be 


Lutetia.  23 

destroyed  to  make  way  for  the  modern  improvements.1 
From  the  antiquarian  point  of  view  such  regrets  are 
quite  intelligible,  but  from  that  of  art  the  loss  is  im- 
perceptible, as  the  remains  were  too  low  to  have  any 
architectural  effect.  Had  the  amphitheatre  been  as 
well  preserved  as  that  of  Nimes,  it  would  have  been  an 
object  of  great  interest,  and  a  most  valuable  contrast  to 
the  monotony  of  modern  streets.  There  is  some  rea- 
son to  believe  that  the  amphitheatre  was  so  arranged 
that  it  might  serve  also  as  a  theatre,  and  its  western 
seats  would  be  supported  by  the  rising  ground  of  the 
hill  Lucotitius,  that  on  which  the  Pantheon  is  now  situ- 
ated, as  the  seats  of  the  theatre  at  Augustodunum  were 
supported  by  the  hill  now  occupied  by  the  little  semi- 
nary. In  the  imaginary  view  of  Lutetia  by  the  archi- 
tect Hoffbauer  the  upper  portion  of  the  amphitheatre 
is  visible  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Seine,  not  very  far 
above  the  upper  extremity  of  the  great  island.  Like 
the  amphitheatre  of  Augustodunum,  it  would  be  almost 
out  in  the  country. 

Very  little  is  known  about  the  temples.  Unlike 
Athens,  Rome,  Vienne,  Nimes,  and  a  few  other  cities 
of  great  antiquity,  Lutetia  has  not  left  a  single  temple 
standing,  nor  have  we  authentic  data  from  which  to 
construct  a  drawing  of  any  temple  that  once  existed. 
We  know  that  there  were  two  temples  on  Montmartre, 
one  dedicated  to  Mars,  the  other  to  Mercury.  A  great 
piece  of  wall  belonging  to  the  latter  existed  so  late  as 

1  The  last  news  is  that  the  other  half  of  the  amphitheatre  is  in  dan- 
ger of  sharing  the  same  fate. 


24  Paris. 

1618,  when  it  was  blown  down  by  a  tempestuous  wind, 
and  "  the  idol  reduced  to  powder."  All  that  we  know 
about  its  shape  is  that  it  was  "  a  great  ruinous  piece  of 
wall."  It  is  represented  as  such  in  the  distance  of  a 
picture  painted  in  the  fifteenth  century  for  the  Abbot 
of  St.  Germain  des  Pres,  and  now  in  the  Musee  des 
Monuments  Frangais. 

Still,  if  we  have  not  accurate  data  concerning  the 
temples  of  Lutetia,  we  have  clear  evidence  in  the  quan- 
tity of  rich  architectural  fragments  which  the  disturbed 
soil  of  Paris  has  yielded  up  that  the  place  contained 
buildings  of  considerable  magnificence,  as  did  the  other 
great  Gallo-Roman  cities.  Lutetia  seems  so  remote 
from  us  that  we  hardly  realize  its  existence.  It  is  more 
like  a  poetical  dream  for  us  than  that  which  was  once  a 
reality.  This  is  due  in  part  to  the  total  abandonment 
of  the  name,  and  in  part  to  the  nearly  total  effacement 
of  all  material  vestiges.  The  case  may  be  understood 
in  a  moment  by  supposing  a  similar  effacement  at 
Rome.  Suppose  that  the  Coliseum  had  simply  dis- 
appeared long  ago,  that  every  vestige  of  temple,  palace, 
forum,  triumphal  arch,  monumental  column,  and  an- 
cient wall,  had  also  vanished;  finally,  imagine  a  new 
city  where  Rome  had  been,  but  so  big  as  to  cover  its 
environs,  and  that  this  new  city,  instead  of  being  called 
Roma  by  the  Italians,  was  called,  let  us  say,  Avezzano 
or  Pescino,  and  had  itself  a  more  famous  history  than 
any  other  modern  town, — what  would  be  the  conse- 
quence? Simply,  that  the  sites  of  old  Rome,  instead 
of  being  familiar  to  all  tourists,  would  be  a  matter  of 


Liitetia.  25 

dubious  speculation  for  melancholy-minded  archaeolo- 
gists, who  would  continually  deplore  its  disappearance, 
and  that  the  new  city  would  go  on  with  its  business  just 

as  if  ROMA  had  never  existed.     Such  has  been  the  fate 

i 

of  Lutetia,  once  a  fair  city,  with  busy  commerce  by 
land  and  water,  with  palaces,  villas,  aqueducts,  and 
baths,  now  a  dream  as  remote  from  us  as  Troy,  the 
only  difference  being  that,  as  we  go  down  the  Seine  and 
pass  the  most  historical  of  her  islands,  we  know  that 
once  Lutetia  was  there. 

In  M.  Hoffbauer's  drawing  of  Lutetia  the  city  is 
prudently  placed  at  a  distance,  while  the  aqueduct  of 
Arcueil  (of  which  the  details  are  known)  occupies  most 
of  the  foreground.  We  have  not  ventured  to  attempt  a 
restoration  of  Lutetia  seen  near,  so  we  give,  instead,  the 
view  of  the  island  as  it  is  to-day,  seen  from  the  windows 
of  the  Louvre,  certainly  one  of  the  finest  urban  views  in 
the  world.  It  has  already  been  explained  in  this  chap- 
ter that  the  great  island  has  been  lengthened  westwards, 
that  is,  towards  the  foreground  of  the  etching,  by  the 
annexation  of  two  small  islands,  which  in  ancient  times 
were  separated  from  it  by  narrow  channels.  The  elon- 
gated island  now  finishes  prettily  with  a  clump  of  trees, 
behind  which  the  reader  may  recognize  the  equestrian 
statue  of  Henry  IV.  on  its  pedestal.  Immediately  in 
front  of  the  statue  are  two  massive  blocks  of  houses, 
built  in  Henry's  time,  and  remarkable  for  their  heaped- 
up,  picturesque,  and  richly  varied  roofs,  which  have 
often  been  sketched  by  Parisian  artists.  These  houses 


26  Paris. 

are  at  the  narrow  end  of  the  Place  Dauphine,  and  the 
space  between  them  used  to  be  its  only  entrance  and 
exit.  The  bridge  in  the  foreground  (I  need  hardly 
observe)  is  the  Pont  Neuf,  and  after  it,  as  we  look  up 
the  river  on  the  broad  arm,  we  see  in  succession  the 
Fonts  au  Change,  Notre  Dame,  d'Arcole,  and  Louis- 
Philippe.  Near  the  Pont  au  Change  are  the  mediaeval 
towers  of  the  Palace  of  Justice,  and  that  is  the  place 
where  the  Gallo-Roman  boatmen,  the  Nautae  Parisi- 
aci,  used  to  fasten  their  barges  to  the  colonnade  of 
the  Roman  palace.  The  principal  existing  beauties  of 
the  island,  as  seen  from  the  western  extremity,  are  the 
towers  of  Notre  Dame  and  the  elegant  spire  of  the 
Sainte  Chapelle.  The  work  of  modern  times  has  not 
been  by  any  means  entirely  hostile  to  its  beauty;  for 
if  the  island  has  lost  something  in  the  vanished  Roman 
palace  and  other  buildings,  it  has  gained  immensely 
in  recent  times  by  its  beautiful  bridges  and  quays. 
The  view  was  blocked  in  the  Middle  Ages  by  the 
houses  upon  the  bridges.  We  shall  see  later  how  su- 
perior the  modern  bridge  is  to  the  mediaeval  one,  and 
what  an  incalculable  gain  the  new  kind  of  bridge  has 
been  to  city  views.  Let  us,  however,  always  exempt 
from  praise  the  modern  railway  pontifex,  who  thinks 
nothing  of  spoiling  a  great  capital  with  his  cast-iron 
abominations.  To  understand  the  injury  that  may  be 
done  by  them,  the  reader  has  only  to  imagine  one  of  them 
in  the  place  of  the  Pont  Neuf  or  the  Pont  au  Change. 
It  has  been  said  that  Lutetia  was  walled  late  (about 


Lutetia.  2  7 

the  close  of  the  fourth  century),  and  this  first  defence 
lasted  a  considerable  time.  It  is  believed  that  it  was 
still  in  existence  (probably  after  considerable  repairs) 
in  the  time  of  Charles  the  Bald,  and  that  ruler  strength- 
ened it  by  wooden  towers,  —  one  at  the  western  end  of 
the  city,  called  la  tour  du  Palais,  and  the  two  others  at 
the  ends  of  the  bridges,  where  they  abutted  on  the 
mainland.  To  save  the  reader  the  trouble  of  a  refer- 
ence, we  may  add  that  Charles  the  Bald  reigned  from 
840  to  877.  After  this  we  know  very  little  about  the  for- 
tifications till  the  reign  of  Louis  VI.  ( 1 108-1 137).  That 
monarch  built  two  gateways  in  stone  to  defend  the  ac- 
cess to  the  two  bridges  from  the  mainland  to  the  island, 
probably  on  or  near  the  sites  where  the  wooden  towers 
of  Charles  the  Bald  had  been,  and  he  called  these  Le 
Grand  Chatelet  and  Le  Petit  Chdtelet,  names  which  the 
reader  is  requested  to  remember,  as  they  are  of  much 
importance  in  the  topography  of  Paris.  Etymologi- 
cally,  chdtelet  is  exactly  the  same  word  as  chalet,  and 
merely  means  a  small  castle ;  but  by  one  of  those  dis- 
tinctions which  custom  creates  between  words  of  like 
origin,  chatelet  means  a  small  strong  castle,  a  work  of 
fortification,  while  chalet  only  means  the  diminutive  of 
a  fine  house.  The  present  reminders  of  the  Grand 
Chatelet  in  Paris  are  the  Place  and  the  Theatre  du 
Chatelet.  So  little  warlike  is  its  present  aspect,  that 
the  pretty  square  has  its  own  theatre  on  its  western  side, 
and  the  Theatre  Lyrique  on  its  eastern,  and  between  the 
two  is  a  fountain  with  a  column  opposite  an  elegant 
undefended  bridge.  The  extremely  peaceful  aspect  of 


28  Paris. 

things  inside  Paris  tempts  us  to  forget  that  the  town  is 
still  a  fortress,  the  only  difference  being  that  its  defen- 
sive castles  are  now  called  forts,  and  are  at  a  distance 
in  the  country. 

The  Grand  Chatelet  had  no  doubt  a  fine  imposing 
aspect  when  first  built,  with  its  lofty  conical-shaped 
towers  and  gloomy  portal.  Our  engraving  shows  it  as 
it  still  existed,  injured  both  by  diminution  and  addition, 
in  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century.  The  reader 
will  easily  see  how  little  the  original  military  architec- 
ture had  been  respected.  In  the  structure  between 
the  towers,  which  ends  as  a  belfry,  were  the  arms  of 
Louis  XII.  As  the  work  of  Louis  VI.  had  been  so  little 
respected,  the  complete  destruction  of  it  in  1802  need 
not  awaken  in  us  any  very  profound  regret.1 

The  Gallo-Roman  wall  is  counted  by  French  antiqua- 
ries as  the  first  wall,  —  la  premiere  enceinte.  It  is  rather 
important  to  remember  the  order  of  the  successive  rings 
of  wall  that  enclosed  Paris  as  it  grew  larger,  for  they 
constantly  recur  in  the  topography  of  the  place.  The 
second  wall  was  that  of  Louis  VI.,  the  builder  of  the 
two  Chatelets ;  but  the  learned  do  not  seem  to  know 
very  much  about  this  wall  positively.  They  know,  how- 
ever, that  it  included  much  of  the  town  which  had 
spread  out  of  the  island,  and  therefore  that  it  was  the 
first  clear  definition  of  mediaeval  Paris  as  distinguished 
from  the  antique  Lutetia. 

1  The  Petit  Chatelet  was  a  simpler  building  than  the  other,  —  a  sort  of 
donjon  tower,  with  bartizans.  We  may  have  to  recur  to  it  on  a  future 
occasion.  It  was  used  as  a  prison.  The  Grand  Chatelet  was  at  one 
time  the  Provost's  residence,  and  it  became  a  court  of  justice. 


Liitetia.  29 

The  third  wall  was  that  of  Philippe-Auguste,  and  of 
this  we  know  a  great  deal,  —  almost  as  much  as  if  we 
had  actually  seen  it.  That  great  and  energetic  sover- 
eign was  as  enterprising  in  building  as  in  politics,  and  the 
same  instinct  which  made  him  enlarge  and  strengthen 
his  kingdom  led  him  at  the  same  time  to  enlarge  and 
strengthen  his  capital.  He  boldly  included  in  his  new 
wall  not  only  existing  streets  that  lay  outside  that  of 
Louis  VI.,  but  also  great  spaces  of  garden-ground,  of 
vineyards,  and  even  fields,  which  he  foresaw  would  be 
covered  with  houses  in  course  of  time.  His  wall  was 
a  thoroughly  good  and  substantial  piece  of  work,  and 
handsome,  too,  in  the  simple  beauty  of  mediaeval  mili- 
tary architecture,  which,  though  not  so  rich  and  elegant 
as  the  ecclesiastical  or  domestic  architecture  of  the 
same  period,  was  still  incomparably  superior  in  appear- 
ance to  the  ugly  military  works  of  our  own  time.  The 
enceinte  de  Philippe-Auguste  consisted  of  two  walls  faced 
with  ashlar,  one  facing  towards  the  country,  the  other 
towards  Paris,  and  the  space  between  them  was  filled 
with  cemented  rubble,  of  which  were  also  the  founda- 
tions. The  wall  was  three  metres  thick  and  nine  high, 
including  the  parapet,  which  was  embattled ;  and  at  in- 
tervals of  about  seventy  metres  there  were  round  tow- 
ers half  buried  in  the  wall,  yet  projecting  from  it  about 
two  yards:  these  were  at  first  covered  with  conical 
roofs,  but  they  were  afterwards  embattled  like  the  para- 
pet. I  am  not  sure  about  their  height,  but  suppose  it 
to  have  been  thirteen  or  fourteen  metres  to  the  eaves  of 
the  conical  roof.  At  longer  intervals  were  large  gates, 


3O  Paris. 

flanked  by  towers  of  more  important  size,  and  these 
were  fifteen  or  sixteen  metres  high. 

On  the  south  side  of  the  river  the  wall  of  Philippe- 
Auguste,  which  was  interrupted  by  the  Seine  (there 
being  no  fortified  bridge  in  continuation  of  it),  started 
from  the  Tour  de  Nesle,  which  remained  long  after  the  wall 
itself  had  disappeared,  —  long  enough  indeed  to  be  drawn 
and  etched  by  Callot.  This  famous  Tour  de  Nesle  was 
originally  called  after  Philippe  Hamelin,  a  provost  of 
Paris,  and  the  name  was  afterwards  changed  when  it 
belonged  to  Amaury  de  Nesle.  It  is  one  of  the  most 
important  points  in  Parisian  topography,  and  is  easily 
remembered  in  connection  with  Callot's  etchings  and 
other  prints.  It  is  remembered  also  in  connection  with 
the  terrible  legend  of  a  vicious  queen  (Jeanne  de  Bour- 
gogne,  wife  of  Philippe  le  Long),  who  is  said  to  have  en- 
ticed handsome  youths  into  the  tower  and  then  had 
them  cast  into  the  Seine  before  daybreak  that  they 
might  tell  no  tales.1  We  do  not  see  the  tower  in 
Callot's  representations  of  it  quite  as  it  was  originally 
built.  At  first  it  is  believed  to  have  had  a  conical  roof, 
and  the  turret  staircase  was  added  by  Charles  V. 

The  exact  situation  of  the  Tour  de  Nesle  was  where 
the  eastern  or  right  wing  of  the  Institute  stands  at  the 
present  day. 

1  This  is  one  of  the  best-known  popular  legends  in  France,  being  at 
the  same  time  romantic  and  horrible,  and  therefore  exactly  suited  to  the 
popular  taste ;  but  I  have  very  little  faith  in  the  truth  of  it,  because,  as 
a  general  rule,  the  water  was  too  shallow  at  the  foot  of  the  tower  for 
such  deeds  to  pass  unperceived.  If  done  at  all,  it  could  only  be  when 
the  Seine  was  in  flood. 


Luletia.  31 

The  reader  is  now  requested  to  transport  himself  in 
imagination  across  the  river  till  he  is  in  the  courtyard 
of  what  is  now  the  old  Louvre,  the  great  square  court- 
yard of  the  palace.  Let  him  stand,  in  imagination,  pre- 
cisely in  the  very  centre  of  that  square  and  look 
southward,  or  towards  the  Seine.  If  the  past  could  rise 
like  a  ghost  he  would  see  a  phantom  wall  crossing  the 
courtyard  from  north  to  south  just  at  his  left  hand,  and 
there  would  be  one  of  its  round  towers  just  within  the 
court  on  the  north  side  of  it  near  to  the  present  en- 
trance from  the  Rue  de  Rivoli.  That  would  be  the  wall 
of  Philippe-Auguste  exactly  in  its  old  situation.  Just 
at  the  same  spectator's  right  hand  would  be  one  of  the 
corner  towers  of  the  Castle  of  the  Louvre  that  Philippe- 
Auguste  erected.  It  was  a  square  castle  with  a  court- 
yard in  the  middle  of  it,  and  in  the  court  there  stood  a 
great  keep  or  donjon.  The  castle  cannot  have  been  of 
very  vast  dimensions,  as  it  occupied  not  quite  one  quar- 
ter of  the  present  square,  including  the  site  of  the  pres- 
ent building,  and  not  simply  the  open  space.  It  was, 
however,  a  strong  place  according  to  the  military  re- 
quirements, of  the  time,  and  is  not  to  be  confounded, 
in  its  origin,  with  the  palatial  associations  that  have 
since  gathered  round  the  word  "  Louvre."  It  began 
by  being  purely  and  simply  a  fortress,  and  a  part  of 
the  defensive  arrangements  made  by  Philippe-Auguste. 
Afterwards  Charles  V.  heightened  and  embellished  it, 
opened  windows  in  its  grim  walls,  and  turned  it  into  an 
agreeable  royal  residence. 

Now,  if  the  reader  will  suppose  that  he  is  walking 


32  Paris. 

from  the  centre  of  the  Louvre  Square  straight  towards 
the  river,  he  will  just  pass  on  his  left  hand,  before  com- 
ing to  the  present  quay,  the  site  of  an  old  tower  belong- 
ing to  the  fortifications  of  Philippe-Auguste,  and  which 
used  to  be  called  La  Tour  qui  fait  le  Coin,  That  tower 
may  be  seen  still  in  old  drawings,  and  it  stood  exactly 
opposite  to  the  Tour  de  Nesle.  A  chain  was  carried 
across  the  Seine  there  to  bar  the  passage. 

These  archaeological  details  may  not  appear  at  first 
sight  to  belong  very  closely  to  our  subject,  which  is  the 
aspect  of  Paris,  for  these  towers  and  the  entire  wall  of 
Philippe-Auguste  have  long  since  been  swept  away; 
but  the  Paris  of  old  engravings  is  not  to  be  understood 
at  all  without  some  knowledge  of  the  past,  and  nothing 
adds  so  much  to  the  interest  of  the  present  ground  as 
the  knowledge  of  what  stood  there  formerly.  The  old 
court  of  the  Louvre  is  a  wonderful  and  magnificent  en- 
closure, but  the  interest  of  it  is  much  augmented  when 
we  know  that  a  strong  mediaeval  castle  once  stood 
there,  and  that  the  city  wall  once  traversed  the  same 
space.  The  Institute  is  a  building  of  some  architec- 
tural merit,  with  many  noble  intellectual  associations ; 
but  any  visitor  to  Paris  who  is  cultivated  enough  to  care 
about  such  associations  as  the  present  building  pos- 
sesses will  probably  have  enough  of  the  historic  sense  to 
care  about  the  Tour  de  Nesle,  and  interest  enough  in 
art  to  know  that  Callot  drew  it  The  past  is  interesting 
also  for  its  wonderful  influence  in  determining  the  sites 
of  present  buildings,  often  in  a  way  which  nobody 
would  ever  imagine.  The  visitor  to  Paris  who  knows 


Lutetia.  33 

absolutely  nothing  about  its  history  is  likely  to  im- 
agine, when  he  sees  the  Louvre,  that  the  site  on  which  he 
finds  a  picture-gallery  was  selected  for  the  convenient 
exhibition  of  art-treasures ;  whereas  the  truth  is  that  it 
was  first  chosen  for  military  reasons,  when  a  fortress 
was  built  just  outside  the  walls  of  Paris,  yet  near  the 
river,  and  that  the  fortress  became  a  royal  residence, 
which  in  its  turn  became  a  national  art-gallery  by  a 
series  of  transformations  that  we  have  still  to  follow. 
It  is  well  to  remember  what  has  been ;  but  there  is  little 
reason  to  regret  the  disappearance  of  such  relics  as  the 
Tour  de  Nesle  and  the  Tour  qui  fait  le  Coin.  We  have 
only  to  see  them  in  drawings  of  their  old  age  to  per- 
ceive how  incongruous  and  out-of-place  they  had  be- 
come. The  present  Louvre  is  magnificent  enough  to 
deserve  that  the  past  should  be  sacrificed  to  it.  Let 
the  past  be  sacrificed  then,  but  not  forgotten. 


III. 

A  VOYAGE   ROUND   THE   ISLAND. 

IT  is  wonderful  how  much  the  interest  of  a  piece  of 
land  is  augmented  by  the  simple  fact  of  its  being 
surrounded  with  water.  The  reason  probably  is,  that 
the  isolation  of  the  land  gives  it  unity  and  limits,  which 
are  the  first  conditions  necessary  to  every  work  in  the 
fine  arts.  Our  own  faculties  are  so  limited  that  the 
infinite  always  disconcerts  them ;  but  give  us  something 
so  defined  that  we  can  see  its  boundaries,  and  we  have 
the  comfortable  sensation  that  perhaps  we  may  under- 
stand what  lies  within  them.  This  feeling  about  islands 
is  naturally  in  inverse  ratio  to  their  size.  Australia, 
though  strictly  just  as  much  an  island  as  the  Isle  of 
Man,  is  never  spoken  of  as  an  island  at  all,  and  we  do 
not  think  of  it  as  one.  The  two  Americas  are  one 
island,  or  two  peninsulas ;  but  we  call  them  a  continent. 
Even  Great  Britain  is  too  large  for  us  to  feel  its  insu- 
larity unless  we  think  about  it.  The  perfection  of  an 
island  is  to  be  just  big  enough  for  some  variety  of  hill 
and  dale,  and  yet  so  little  that  the  whole  circumference 
of  it  can  be  seen  from  some  elevated  point. 

There  are  many  such  spots  of  earth  in  the  world,  of 
great  natural  beauty,  in  lakes,  rivers,  and  seas ;   but  if 


A  Voyage  round  the  Island.  35 

we  except  the  half-artificial  islets  on  which  Venice  is 
built,  there  is  not  an  island  anywhere  to  be  compared 
for  human  interest  to  that  which  is  crowned  with  the 
towers  of  Notre  Dame  and  the  spire  of  the  Sainte  Cha- 
pelle.  What  may  have  been  its  natural  beauty  in  pre- 
historic times  we  can  only  guess.  It  has  no  hill,  no 
rock,  like  that  at  Decize  in  the  Loire.  Probably  it  was 
never  anything  better  than  a  flat  piece  of  land  adorned 
with  groups  of  trees  and  reflecting  itself,  like  hundreds 
of  other  river  islands,  in  the  stream  that  washed  and 
undermined  its  banks.  Man  took  possession  of  it,  and 
gave  it  an  interest  surpassing  that  of  rocks  and  foliage. 
In  itself  it  is  now  nothing  but  a  flat  area,  defended  from 
the  destructive  action  of  the  water  by  well-built  quays ; 
but  every  inch  of  it  has  its  history,  and  besides  this  the 
island  has  an  architectural  interest  of  a  peculiar  kind,  for 
the  work  that  has  been  done  in  it  in  past  ages,  and  for 
the  remarkable  changes  that  have  been  made  in  it  both 
in  modern  and  in  older  times. 

I  must  now  ask  the  reader  to  accompany  me  in  a 
boat  voyage  round  this  famous  little  island,  —  a  slow 
voyage,  with  many  pauses,  as  different  as  possible  from 
a  trip  in  one  of  the  swift  little  steamers  that  dart  so 
frequently  under  the  bridges.  They  are  not  for  us. 
Neither  do  we  require  a  swift  and  elegant  rowing  boat, 
such  as  they  build  now  down  at  Asnieres.  Anything 
that  will  float  and  be  steady  is  good  enough  for  us ;  but 
we  require  an  experienced  marinier  de  la  Seine  (a  worthy 
successor  of  the  ancient  Nautae  Parisiaci]  to  look  to 
our  safety  in  the  currents,  for  we  shall  be  far  too  much 


36  Paris. 

occupied  with  other  matters  to  concern  ourselves  about 
the  details  of  navigation. 

We  will  go  down  the  broad  arm  of  the  Seine  first,  if 
you  please,  and  then  ascend  the  narrow  one;  and  we 
will  start  from  the  Pont  Sully,  which  goes  from  the 
Quai  de  la  Tournelle  across  the  eastern  corner  of  the 
Island  of  St.  Louis,  straight  in  the  direction  of  the  Bas- 
tille, which  the  pedestrian  soon  reaches  by  the  Boule- 
vard Henri  IV.  Before  leaving  the  Pont  Sully,  we  may 
observe  that  this  spot  where  the  Boulevard  St.  Germain 
joins  the  Quai  de  la  Tournelle  is  of  considerable  impor- 
tance in  the  historical  topography  of  Paris,  because  the 
Porte  St.  Bernard  was  just  precisely  there;  and  not 
only  was  that  gate  in  the  original  wall  of  Philippe- 
Auguste,  but  it  was  preserved,  after  undergoing  a  trans- 
formation, till  the  comparatively  recent  times  of  Louis 
XVI.  In  the  days  of  Louis  XIV.  the  old  Gothic  gate 
was  turned  into  a  classical  arch  of  triumph  in  honor  of 
the  great  king;  but  a  piece  of  the  old  wall  and  two 
towers  were  left  intact  on  the  side  towards  the  Seine, 
and  that  which  stood  close  to  the  water  was  the  Tour- 
nelle itself,  from  which  the  present  quay  takes  its  name. 
For  various  reasons  it  is  one  of  the  most  important 
points  in  Paris.  In  the  Middle  Ages  this  tower  was 
connected  by  a  chain  with  one  that  stood  opposite  to  it 
on  the  island  of  St.  Louis,  while  on  the  land  side  the 
wall  which  started  from  the  Tournelle  in  a  southerly 
direction,  and  turned  westward  just  above  where  the 
Pantheon  now  stands,  was  the  boundary  of  the  great 
mediaeval  university  of  Paris.  What  is  now  called  the 


A  Voyage  round  the  Island.  37 

Island  of  St.  Louis  was  in  the  fifteenth  century  two  isl- 
ands ;  the  one  to  the  east  being  called  rile  aux  Vaches, 
and  that  to  the  west  I' He  Notre  Dame.  Farther  east,  and 
separated  from  the  He  aux  Vaches  by  a  narrow  channel, 
and  by  one  still  narrower  from  the  north  shore  of  the 
Seine,  was  another  island,  called  rile  des  Javiaux.  This 
was  called  file  Louvier  in  the  eighteenth  century,  and 
was  used  as  a  storage  ground  for  firewood  ;  but  the  chan- 
nel has  now  been  filled  up  and  the  island  annexed  to  the 
mainland.  The  Boulevard  Henri  IV.  and  three  smaller 
streets  cross  what  was  once  flowing  water.  As  to  the 
present  condition  of  the  He  St.  Louis,  it  need  not  detain 
us.  The  ground  is  covered  with  the  usual  tall,  well- 
built,  modern  Parisian  houses,  and  connected  with  other 
parts  of  Paris  by  seven  bridges,  if  you  count  the  Pont 
Sully  as  two,  which  it  really  is.  The  island  is  said  to  be 
an  agreeable  place  of  residence  for  its  almost  Venetian 
quiet,  and  for  the  fine  views  from  many  of  its  windows. 
Altogether  it  has  now  a  very  highly  civilized  appear- 
ance ;  yet  one  cannot  help  regretting  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury, when  there  was  only  a  bit  of  fortress  wall  upon  it, 
with  towers,  and  a  few  trees,  and  when  seventeen  towers 
could  be  counted  along  the  north  bank  of  the  Seine,  and 
turning  up  to  the  great  fortress,  —  the  Bastille,  —  while 
within  the  space  so  enclosed  arose  many  a  turret  and 
spire  whereof  there  are  none  remaining. 

The  Isle  of  St.  Louis  —  which  in  the  Middle  Ages  had 
been  so  little  dealt  with  by  human  art  that  the  animals 
upon  it  could  get  to  the  water  all  round,  except  where 
the  banks  were  undermined  by  the  current  —  is  now  so 


38  Paris. 

surrounded  with  quays  that  the  horses  in  the  stables 
could  never  approach  the  water  at  all  unless  access 
were  made  for  them  artificially.  This  is  one  of  those 
numerous  cases  in  which  civilization  first  takes  away  a 
natural  convenience  and  then  restores  it  in  its  own 
fashion.  Frenchmen  are  very  fond  of  bathing  their 
horses  in  the  fine  weather;  you  may  see  them  doing 
it  in  all  the  rivers  of  France,  as  artists  are  well  aware. 
Nothing  that  men  and  animals  are  ever  engaged  in 
together  offers  prettier  and  more  unexpected  effects 
of  grouping  and  active  movement,  while  the  rippling 
of  the  water  itself  against  the  animals'  bodies  affords 
ample  variety  of  reflection.  The  view  from  the  river 
here  has  been  much  diminished  in  picturesque  interest 
by  the  gradual  and  now  almost  complete  victory  of 
modern  neatness  in  the  works  of  the  house-architect 
and  the  engineer,  the  only  very  obvious  gain  being  the 
distant  dome  of  the  Pantheon.  Notwithstanding  the  loss 
of  all  the  military  mediaeval  towers,  such  as  the  Tour- 
nelle  on  the  left  bank,  the  Tour  Loriaux  on  the  Tie  St. 
Louis,  and  many  others,  we  have  one  consolation  which 
makes  us  easily  forget  them  all.  Notre  Dame  is  still 
erect  on  the  greater  island,  the  glory  of  the  river  as 
you  come  down  through  the  Pont  de  la  Tournelle,  so 
that  you  can  hardly  take  your  eye  off  it  as  the  motion 
of  your  boat  changes  for  you  the  intricate  perspective 
of  tower  and  spire  and  flying  buttress.  There  is  many 
a  fine  river-scene  in  France  in  which  natural  beauty 
is  mingled  with  some  remnant  of  noble  architecture. 
Here  the  natural  beauty  is  limited  to  sky  and  water. 


A  Voyage  round  the  Island.  39 

and  to  the  trees  in  the  space  at  the  upper  end  of  the 
island,  now  called  the  Jardin  de  I' Arckevtckt ;  but  it  is 
a  scene  which  nothing  spoils,  and  which  has  a  wonder- 
ful charm  and  grandeur  at  certain  times,  especially  in 
the  splendor  of  sunset.  Notre  Dame  looks  imposing 
from  every  side;  but  there  is  no  view  of  the  building 
quite  so  impressive  as  that  which  includes  the  apse, 
with  its  long,  light,  flying  buttresses  in  their  varied 
degrees  of  foreshortening. 

This  illustration  shows  the  cathedral  as  it  appears 
from  the  garden  itself;  but,  like  all  large  edifices,  it  is 
much  more  imposing  from  some  distance,  and  looks 
best  in  the  well-known  view  from  the  left  bank  of 
the  Seine  that  has  been  so  often  drawn,  painted,  and 
engraved,  and  that  was  the  subject  of  one  of  Meryon's 
most  famous  etchings. 

The  contrast  between  the  two  islands  of  St.  Louis 
and  La  Cite  is  in  nothing  more  remarkable  than  in 
the  antiquity  of  the  human  life  upon  them.  Here  the 
reader  must  be  requested  to  give  his  special  attention 
for  one  moment  to  one  of  those  points  which  are  the 
perpetual  confusion  of  the  careless  and  unobservant. 
When  the  careless  reader  meets  with  the  He  Notre  Dame 
in  the  history  of  Paris,  he  inevitably  imagines  that  it 
is  the  island  on  which  Notre  Dame  is  built;  whereas 
it  was  the  mediaeval  name  for  the  more  southerly  of 
the  two  islands,  now  united  into  one  under  the  name 
of  St.  Louis ;  and  what  is  most  curious  and  remarkable 
is,  that  although  the  island  of  the  city  on  which  Notre 
Dame  is  situated  was  peopled  in  the  time  of  the 


4O  Paris. 

Romans,  and  covered  with  a  most  dense  population 
in  the  Middle  Ages,  the  island  called  after  Notre  Dame 
was  waste  land  until  the  seventeenth  century.  This 
accounts  for  the  strange  fact  that  there  never  was  a 
mediaeval  bridge  from  one  island  to  the  other,  though 
they  are  so  near  that  a  bridge  seems  inevitable.  The 
distance  is  only  sixty-five  metres,  and  it  is  now  spanned 
by  a  single  arch.  In  the  seventeenth  century  there  was 
a  wooden  bridge  from  the  southern  extremity  of  the 
He  St.  Louis  (the  present  Pont  St.  Louis  is  higher 
up),  and  this  wooden  structure  has  a  strange  history 
connected  with  what  was  called  the  Cloister  of  Notre 
Dame.  This  was  not  what  we  are  accustomed  to  call 
a  cloister,  but  a  sort  of  ecclesiastical  village  composed 
of  thirty-seven  houses,  each  having  its  own  garden, 
and  the  whole  being  defended  by  a  wall.  The  clois- 
ter was  situated  in  the  Island  of  the  City,  between 
Notre  Dame  and  the  channel  now  crossed  by  the 
Pont  St.  Louis.  It  appears  that  the  clergy  who  lived 
in  it  enjoyed  such  delightful  quiet  amid  their  gar- 
dens that  they  could  not  endure  the  idea  of  a  bridge 
with  its  noisy  traffic ;  so  in  order  to  spare  the  cloister 
the  bridge  was  made  of  a  very  peculiar  form.  First 
it  crossed  the  channel  at  such  an  angle  as  to  make  it 
much  longer  than  necessary;  and  then,  when  it  had 
got  near  what  is  now  the  Quai  Napoleon,  it  ran  parallel 
with  the  shore  of  the  island  for  some  distance  before 
landing.  This  wooden  bridge  is  known  in  history  as  the 
Pont  Rouge,  because  it  was  painted  with  red  lead. 
Next  we  come  to  the  Pont  d'Arcole,  which  has. 


A  Voyage  round  the  Island.  *  4 1 

hardly  any  history.1  It  is  in  one  arch,  and  a  light 
and  clever  piece  of  modern  engineering.  It  connects 
the  Rue  d'Arcole,  which  leads  to  the  west  front  of 
Notre  Dame,  with  that  part  of  the  north  shore  where 
the  H6tel  de  Ville  is  situated;  consequently  in  modern 
Paris  there  are  few  points  of  greater  architectural  in- 
terest. Still,  so  far  as  the  variety  and  abundance  of 
picturesque  material  is  concerned,  this  part  of  Paris 
has  suffered  even  more  than  many  others  by  modern 
improvements.  It  was  once  extremely  populous.  In 
the  Middle  Ages  it  was  a  labyrinth  of  narrow  streets, 
with  tall  gabled  houses,  all  along  the  bank  of  the 
river.  Even  in  the  last  century  there  still  subsisted 
a  number  of  small  churches  and  tortuous  streets,  many 
of  which  bore  the  old  names,  and  remnants  of  them 
may  still  be  remembered.  The  improvements,  begun 
under  the  reign  of  Napoleon  III.,  and  carried  out  under 

1  I  quote  the  following  passage  in  a  letter  from  my  old  friend  William 
Wyld,  the  distinguished  painter,  as  it  adds  to  the  interest  of  this  bridge : 
"  Touching  the  Pont  d'Arcole  of  which  you  say,  I  think,  that  there  is 
'  hardly  any  history,'  I  will  tell  you  a  little  anecdote.  In  1830  I  was  an 
eye-witness  to  much  hard  fighting  across  that  bridge  (which  was  then  but 
a  small  suspension  passerelle  for  foot-passengers  only),  and  saw  there 
many  a  tall  fellow  laid  low  (I  was  on  the  quay  of  the  Isle  St.  Louis).  I 
think  the  bridge  was  then  called  the  Pont  de  PHdtel  de  Ville,  — but  during 
the  hottest  of  the  fight  a  youth  dashed  sword  in  hand  on  to  the  bridge 
crying  out,  '_/<?  m'appeUe  d'Arcole  !'  .  .  .  Whether  he  escaped  or  not  I  don't 
know,  but  his  name  was  given  to  the  bridge  without  any  allusion  to  that 
in  Italy  on  which  Napoleon  I.  carried  the  flag  of  the  Republic  amid  a 
shower  of  bullets."  According  to  Joanne's  Guide,  the  youth  was  killed 
upon  the  bridge.  Certainly  nothing  was  subsequently  heard  of  him ;  and 
so  by  a  single  exclamation  joined  to  an  act  of  courage  he  won  lasting 
fame,  slightly  obscured  only  by  the  confusion  between  his  name  and  that 
of  a  bridge  in  Italy.  Joanne  gives  his  name  as  "  Arcole,"  without  the 
particle. 


42  Paris. 

the  Republic,  have  cleared  away  all  these,  and  substi- 
tuted for  them  broad  streets,  enormous  public  buildings, 
and  an  extensive  open  space.  The  result  has  been  a 
simplification  not  unfavorable  to  the  effect  of  magnifi- 
cence, but  very  destructive  of  the  picturesque,  because 
the  picturesque  requires  the  variety  of  many  unex- 
pected details.  The  pyramids  of  Egypt  are  grand, 
but  not  picturesque ;  the  streets  in  old  Cairo  were 
picturesque  in  the  extreme.  The  new  Hotel  Dieu, 
which  has  one  front  to  the  Seine  and  another  on 
the  open  space  in  front  of  Notre  Dame,  is  so  vast 
that  the  site  of  it  covers  nearly  three  times  the  extent 
of  ground  occupied  by  the  cathedral.  On  the  site  of 
this  single  building  there  used  to  be  three  churches  and 
part  of  a  fourth,  and  no  less  than  eleven  streets ! 1 

Another  modern  taste  besides  that  for  extensive 
public  buildings  has  been  extremely  destructive  of 
houses.  Throughout  the  Middle  Ages,  and  even 
down  to  comparatively  recent  times,  it  was  consid- 
ered a  wise  economy  of  space  to  cover  bridges  with 
houses ;  and  that  to  such  a  degree  that  instead  of  a 

1  As  some  of  these  have  a  certain  degree  of  historical  interest, 
I  give  the  names  of  them  in  a  note.  The  churches  were  those  of  St. 
Landry,  St.  Denis  de  la  Chartre,  La  Madeleine,  and  part  of  St.  Pierre 
aux  Boeufs.  The  streets  were  Rue  Basse  des  Ursins,  Rue  Haute  des 
Ursins,  Rue  du  Haut  Moulin,  Rue  des  Marmousets  (celebrated  for  the 
pastry-cook  who  in  the  Middle  Ages  made  pies  of  human  flesh,  and 
etched  by  Lalanne  before  its  demolition),  Rue  du  Chevet  St.  Landry, 
Rue  St.  Pierre  aux  Bosufs,  Rue  Cocatrix,  Rue  de  Perpignan,  Rue  des  Trois 
Canettes,  Rue  de  la  Licorne.  This  list  may  serve  to  give  the  reader  some 
faint  idea  of  the  enormous  effacement  of  old  Paris  which  has  been 
necessary  to  make  room  for  the  gigantic  modern  public  buildings,  all 
this  being  sacrificed  to  a  single  hospital. 


A  Voyage  round  the  Island.  43 

broad  road  over  the  bridge  with  open  views  on  both 
sides  of  it,  the  people  of  those  days  had  the  advantage 
(as  it  must  have  seemed  to  them)  of  getting  across  the 
water  through  a  narrow  street  without  any  views  at 
all,  but  with  plenty  of  delightful  little  shops.  The  old 
notion  of  a  bridge  was  to  have  it  as  much  as  possible 
like  the  present  passages  of  Paris,  such  as  the  Passage 
Jouffroy,  the  Passage  des  Panoramas,  etc.  It  may  be 
supposed  that  our  ancestors  thought  a  bridge  without 
houses  bleak  and  uncomfortable,  as  the  passengers 
over  it  would  be  unpleasantly  exposed  to  the  draught 
of  wind  that  generally  blows  up  or  down  a  river. 
Their  arrangement  gave  no  view,  but  it  gave  a  sheltered 
lounge,  with  plenty  to  see  in  the  shop-windows.  A 
curious  consequence  of  it,  which  scarcely  strikes  us 
until  we  reflect  a  little,  was  that  not  only  were  the 
passages  deprived  of  a  view  on  the  river,  but  even  from 
the  windows  of  the  houses  themselves  very  little  was 
to  be  seen,  as  the  next  bridge  always  blocked  the  view, 
so  that  when  the  bridges  were  near  together  the  houses 
on  them  and  on  the  banks  of  the  river  made  a  sort  of 
square  with  an  enclosed  area  of  water ;  and  the  river 
was  little  better  than  a  succession  of  such  squares. 
We  may  be  severe  on  our  own  times  for  some  errors 
of  taste,  but  surely  in  our  treatment  of  rivers  we  have 
reason  on  our  side.  The  Middle  Ages  had  nothing 
to  show  like  the  quays  and  bridges  of  modern  Paris. 
There  was  not  a  single  spot  in  the  Paris  of  Philippe- 
Auguste  from  which  a  view  could  be  had  up  and  down 
the  river  like  the  view  from  the  modern  bridges  and 


44  Paris. 

quays.     Old    Paris    had    a   thousand    picturesque   bits, 
but  it  had  no  distances. 

The  Pont  Notre  Dame  is  that  which  joins  the  present 
Rue  de  la  Cite,  which  is  on  the  island,  to  the  Quai  de 
Gevres  on  the  right  bank  of  the  Seine.  It  is  one  of  the 
most  interesting  bridges  in  Paris.  I  have  not  space  to 
give  the  history  of  the  earlier  bridges,  and  the  reader 
might  not  care  to  follow  such  archaeological  details ; 
but  we  cannot  pass  in  silence  the  wonderful  catastrophe 
of  October  25,  1499,  when  the  bridge  fell  into  the 
Seine  with  all  the  houses  upon  it.  The  year  previous 
some  carpenters  had  noticed  the  rotten  condition  of  the 
piles,  and  gave  ample  warning;  but  this  was  disregarded 
till  at  length  a  master  carpenter  went  to  one  of  the  au- 
thorities, the  "  lieutenant-criminal "  Papillon,  and  told 
him  that  the  catastrophe  was  imminent.  By  order  of 
a  court  then  sitting  (at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning) 
Papillon  went  and  gave  notice  to  the  inhabitants  and 
closed  the  bridge  to  the  public.  The  dwellers  on  the 
bridge  tried  to  remove  their  goods  (a  great  piece  of 
labor  as  they  were  all  shopkeepers),  but  could  not 
effect  this  before  the  entire  structure  fell  into  the  river 
with  a  fearful  noise,  and  amid  such  a  cloud  of  dust 
that  nothing  could  be  seen.  It  is  difficult  to  imagine 
anything  more  terrible  except  an  earthquake.  In  the 
midst  of  the  confusion  some  lives  were  strangely  pre- 
served. A  porter  with  a  burden  of  arrows  on  his  back 
was  thrown  into  the  river  and  simply  swam  to  the  side. 
A  man  in  one  of  the  houses  seeing  a  fissure  yawn  be- 
neath him  jumped  out  of  window  and  also  saved  him- 


PONT    NOTRE   DAME,    iSTH   CENTURY. 


A   Voyage  round  the  Island.  45 

self  by  swimming.  But  the  most  remarkable  case  was 
that  of  a  little  child,  tied  up  closely  in  its  swaddling 
clothes  and  lying  in  its  cradle.  The  cradle  was  flung 
into  the  water,  where  it  was  afterwards  found  floating 
like  a  boat,  with  the  child  alive  and  well  inside  it :  so, 
at  least,  says  a  contemporary  chronicler. 

The  custom  of  having  houses  on  bridges  was  too 
deeply  rooted  for  the  new  one  to  be  without  them,  so 
it  was  covered  with  tall  structures,  with  their  gable-ends 
to  the  stream,  —  more  than  thirty  gables,  like  the  teeth  of 
a  saw,  according  to  a  careful  old  engraving.  The  bridge 
so  erected  at  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century 
remained  essentially  the  same  till  the  eighteenth,  except 
that  the  fronts  of  the  houses  were  modernized  accord- 
ing to  the  taste  of  the  day.  A  curious  point  to  be  noted 
is  that  these  houses  were  the  first  in  Paris  to  be  num- 
bered, and  with  odd  numbers  on  one  side  and  even  num- 
bers on  the  other.  It  was  a  place  for  fashionable  shops, 
kept  by  jewellers,  goldsmiths,  picture-dealers,  —  a  sort  of 
Palais  Royal  or  Boulevard  des  Italiens  of  that  time. 

This  street  on  the  bridge  existed  till  towards  the  close 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  when  Louis  XVI.  decreed 
the  demolition  of  the  bridge-houses  throughout  the 
capital.  This  innovation  was  very  nearly  contempo- 
rary with  the  political  revolution,  and  was  first  carried 
into  effect  on  the  Pont  Notre  Dame.  Wonderful  to 
relate,  in  spite  of  so  much  modern  improvement  the 
old  bridge  still  exists ;  but  it  has  been  re-cased  in  stone 
and  altered  in  some  respects  externally,  so  that  it  has 
now  quite  a  modern  air. 


46  Paris. 

The  very  last  relic  of  old-fashioned  picturesqueness 
about  the  bridges  of  Paris  was  the  pump  just  below  the 
Pont  Notre  Dame,  built  originally  in  1678.  I  remember 
it  well ;  and  not  only  do  I  remember  the  thing  itself  as 
a  material  object,  but  also  a  certain  feeling  that  it  awak- 
ened, —  a  feeling  of  respect  for  a  sort  of  majesty  that 
the  poor  old  structure  undoubtedly  possessed,  and  of 
regret  that  the  march  of  improvement  would  so  soon 
remove  it.  Meryon  made  a  delightful  etching  of  it,  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  of  all  his  plates  for  clearness 
and  elegance  of  style,  and  he  also  wrote  some  verses  in 
pity  for  its  fate.  His  etching  showed  the  pump  in 
afternoon  light ;  the  accompanying  woodcut  shows  the 
aspect  it  had  on  sunny  mornings.  The  truth  is  that, 
though  a  poor,  cheap  structure,  it  had  several  fine 
architectural  qualities.  Its  masses  were  well  composed, 
well  supported,  and  admirably  crowned  by  the  tower. 

The  short  space  between  the  Pont  Notre  Dame  and 
the  Pont  au  Change  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  in 
Paris.  The  flower-market,  as  pretty  a  sight  as  the 
modern  city  could  show  anywhere,  used  to  extend  in 
an  open  space  between  the  Quai  Desaix  and  what  was 
the  Rue  de  la  Pelleterie.  It  had  a  fine  background 
towards  the  west  in  the  buildings  of  the  Palace  of  Justice, 
with  the  picturesque  corner  tower,  and  it  inspired  artists 
with  the  desire  to  make  pictures  of  it.1  I  wonder  what 
artist  would  care  to  paint  the  same  scene  to-day.  Instead 

1  A  drawing  of  it  by  Turner  was  engraved  in  the  "  Rivers  of  France," 
but  it  is  one  of  the  weakest  in  the  volume.  Turner  especially  missed  the 
character  of  the  clock-tower,  which  is  and  always  was  very  definite  andj 
peculiar 


A  Voyage  round  the  Island.  47 

of  the  pleasant  open  space  which  so  charmingly  disen- 
gaged the  buildings  of  the  Palace,  we  have  now  a  great, 
heavy,  ornate,  and  vulgar  modern  edifice  with  a  dome, 
—  the  Tribunal  de  Commerce;  just  one  of  those  erec- 
tions which  the  Philistines  always  consider  "  very  hand- 
some," and  look  upon  with  deep  respect  because  of 
their  evident  costliness.  The  best  time  of  this  bit  of 
Parisian  scenery,  from  the  artist's  point  of  view,  must 
have  been  when  Girtin  drew  it  in  1800.  Then  the  tow- 
ers of  the  Palace  were  not  yet  united  by  heavy  masses 
of  modern  building  which  reduce  their  importance,  and 
the  old  corner  tower  had  not  been  replaced  by  the  new 
one.  It  we  go  farther  back  the  view  is  spoiled  again 
by  another  cause.  During  the  latter  half  of  the  seven- 
teenth and  nearly  the  whole  of  the  eighteenth  centuries 
a  massive  line  of  stone  houses,  five  stories  high,  stood 
on  the  Pont  au  Change,  and  of  course  effectually 
blocked  the  view.  Earlier  still  a  row  of  gabled  post- 
and-plaster  houses  stood  on  a  wooden  bridge,  but  these 
were  all  burnt  down  in  1621.  There  was  at  that  time 
another  bridge,  a  very  little  lower  down  the  river, 
called  the  Pont  Marchand.  A  servant-girl  there  let  a 
candle  fall  in  a  place  where  firewood  was  kept,  probably 
among  shavings,  for  the  house  was  soon  on  fire,  and 
with  it  the  others  and  the  bridge  itself.  The  flames 
soon  reached  the  Pont  aux  Changeurs,  which  was  totally 
destroyed.  Not  only  were  the  bridge-houses  burnt,  but 
some  on  the  land  caught  fire  also.  An  eye-witness  has 
left  an  account  of  this  fire,  which  must  have  been  a 
most  remarkable  spectacle.  When  the  houses  were 


48  Paris. 

already  in  flames  the  inhabitants  remained  as  long  as 
possible,  throwing  their  goods  out  of  the  windows. 
There  had  been  warning  for  the  destruction  of  the  Pont 
Notre  Dame :  for  this  there  was  no  warning. 

The  houses  between  the  two  bridges  on  the  side  of 
the  island  had  gables  and  balconies  towards  the  river ; 
the  lower  stories  of  them,  near  the  water  (there  being 
no  quay  in  old  times),  were  occupied  by  tanners  who 
congregated  in  this  one  quarter,  according  to  the  medi- 
aeval custom.  If  these  buildings  could  have  been  pre- 
served to  our  own  day,  they  would  have  been  favorite 
subjects  for  Parisian  artists  (for  whom  there  is  little  left) ; 
but  as  the  natural  progress  of  a  modern  city  is  towards 
good  quays,  all  the  humble  old  river-side  industries  have 
to  go  elsewhere. 

I  mentioned  the  simplification  which  had  resulted  from 
modern  improvements  on  the  island  north  of  the  Pont 
Notre  Dame,  where  eleven  streets  and  three  churches 
had  made  way  for  a  single  building.  The  same  process 
has  been  carried  out  in  the  section  of  the  island  which 
is  included  between  the  lines  drawn  across  it  from  the 
Pont  Notre  Dame  and  the  Pont  au  Change.  In  this  area 
there  were  formerly  nine  streets  and  four  churches,1  but 
at  the  present  day  there  are  simply  two  buildings,  — 
the  Tribunal  de  Commerce,  already  mentioned  with  the 
degree  of  respect  due  to  it,  and  a  huge  barrack  called 

1  The  streets  were  Rue  de  la  Pelleterie,  Rue  Gervais  Laurent,  Rue  de 
la  vieille  Draperie,  Rue  St.  Eloi,  Rue  de  la  Calandre,  Rue  aux  Feves, 
Rue  des  Carcuissons,  Rue  du  Marche  Neuf,  Rue  St.  Croix ;  the  churches 
were  St.  Barthelemi,  St.  Croix,  St.  Eloi,  and  St.  Germain.  All  these,  as 
well  as  the  Marche  Neuf,  have  entirely  disappeared. 


A  Voyage  round  the  Island.  49 

the  Caserne  de  la  Garde  Rfyublicaine,  of  which  we  can 
only  say  that  it  is  very  extensive,  very  well  built,  and 
as  tiresome  as  it  is  extensive.  The  "real  improvement 
which  has  followed  from  recent  changes  is,  that  the  few 
modern  streets  —  the  Rue  de  la  Cite,  the  Boulevard  du 
Palais,  and  the  Avenue  de  Constantine  —  are  so  much 
more  spacious  than  the  many  little  streets  of  former 
times,  and  give  such  superior  views.  They  are  three 
or  four  times  as  broad  as  the  old  Rue  de  la  vieille 
Draperie. 

In  the  Middle  Ages  there  was  a  bridge  for  foot- 
passengers  only,  but  with  houses  upon  it,  just  below  the 
present  Pont  au  Change.  This  was  erected  exclusively 
for  the  convenience  of  the  millers,  who  were  allowed  to 
occupy  nearly  the  whole  width  of  the  river  with  their 
wheels,  placed  in  the  open  spaces  between  the  wooden 
piles  of  which  the  bridge  was  built.  The  whole  structure 
was  carried  away  by  an  inundation  towards  the  close  of 
the  year  1596,  and  it  was  afterwards  replaced  by  the 
Pont  Marchand,  destroyed  in  the  great  fire  of  1621. 
There  were  eleven  mills,  and  the  names  of  the  millers 
have  been  preserved.  After  the  fire  it  was  not  thought 
necessary  to  rebuild  the  lower  bridge,  which  was  not  of 
much  public  utility,  so  the  Pont  au  Change  has  remained 
by  itself  ever  since.  The  present  structure  is  of  very 
recent  date,  having  been  built  in  1859,  not  quite  in  the 
same  angle  as  the  old  bridge  (being  now  more  at  right 
angles  with  the  river),  and  a  little  higher  up  the  stream, 
especially  on  the  side  of  the  island.  There  is  little  to 
be  said  about  its  architecture,  except  that  the  essentially 

4 


50  Paris. 

modern  ideas  of  depressed  arches  and  level  roadway 
have  been  carefully  adhered  to,  while  a  certain  elegance 
is  given  by  a  cornice  and  balustrade.  Such  is  the 
course  of  bridge-architecture  from  the  Middle  Ages  to 
our  own  time.  First  comes  the  wooden  mediaeval 
bridge,  consisting  simply  of  tall  piles  rising  straight 
from  the  bed  of  the  stream,  and  bearing  a  street  of 
crowded  houses  upon  them ;  next,  the  substantial,  round- 
arched  stone  bridge  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth 
centuries,  burdened  with  stone  houses,  massive  and 
lofty;  then  the  same  bridge  without  the  houses;  and, 
lastly,  the  modern  bridge,  with  depressed  arches  of 
wider  span,  and  a  broad,  level  roadway  above.  The 
modern  ideal  is  by  far  the  most  rational  of  all,  being 
at  the  same  time  the  most  convenient  for  vehicles  above 
and  boats  or  rafts  below,  while  it  reduces  to  a  minimum 
the  obstruction  of  the  view.  The  only  objection  to  it 
is,  that  its  extreme  simplicity  of  purpose  has  a  tendency 
to  produce  a  merely  utilitarian  structure,  unless  the 
architect  is  a  man  of  great  taste  and  intelligence,  who 
can  give  a  touch  of  elegance  to  a  work  of  plain  utility. 
There  is  a  well-known  etching  by  Meryon  showing 
the  Pont  au  Change  and  the  round  towers  of  the  Palace 
of  Justice,  seen  through  an  arch  of  the  Pont  Notre  Dame, 
with  the  wooden  substructure  of  the  old  pump  to  the 
spectator's  left.  This  etching  gives,  as  well  as  any 
existing  illustration,  the  character  of  the  old  Pont  au 
Change  with  its  round  arches,  its  plain  parapet,  its  rising 
roadway,  and  its  angular  cutwaters.  The  plate  is  inter- 
esting, too,  for  the  ingenious  introduction  of  the  round 


A   Voyage  round  the  Island.  5 1 

towers,  which  are  now  all  that  is  left  of  the  picturesque 
between  Meryon's  position  and  the  Pont  Neuf.  On  the 
right  bank  of  the  Seine  you  have  two  pretty  theatres 
(Chatelet  and  Lyrique),  and  the  light  column  of  the 
palm-fountain,  with  the  very  elegant  tower  of  St.  Jacques, 
more  visible  than  ever  before ;  but  the  picturesque  of 
the  river-side  is  gone. 

In  the  Middle  Ages  there  was  no  bridge  connecting 
the  island  with  the  mainland  farther  west  than  the  Pont 
Marchand.  Another  communication  was  felt  to  be  de- 
sirable long  before  there  was  a  definite  project,  and  the 
project  was  under  consideration  long  before  it  was 
executed.  The  work  of  the  Pont  Neuf  was  at  length 
actually  and  practically  commenced  in  the  year  1578, 
under  Henri  III.,  by  driving  piles  on  the  south  side,  and 
the  southern  half  of  the  bridge  —  that  across  the  narrow 
arm  of  the  Seine  —  was  completed  long  before  the  other. 
Henri  IV.  took  up  the  work  vigorously  in  1598  and 
finished  it  in  1604. 

Old  fashions  linger  long,  and  although  no  houses  were 
erected  on  the  Pont  Neuf,  small  wooden  booths  were  tol- 
erated upon  it  for  a  long  time;  and  after  they  were 
removed,  they  had  descendants  even  in  the  present 
century  in  the  shape  of  curious  little  semicircular  shops 
erected  on  the  projections  between  the  arches.  These 
are  still  visible  in  Meryon's  beautiful  dry-point  of  the 
Pont  Neuf.  They  have  since  been  removed,  and  the  pres- 
ent aspect  of  the  bridge  very  closely  resembles  its  aspect 
in  the  seventeenth  century.  The  woodcut  opposite 
page  50  shows  the  shorter  portion  of  the  bridge,  —  that 


5  2  Paris. 

over  the  narrow  arm  of  the  Seine  as  it  appeared  in  1845, 
the  little  shops  being  still  visible  as  turrets  not  very 
disadvantageously.1  Turner  liked  them,  certainly,  as 
they  are  made  quite  prominent  in  his  impressive  draw- 
ing of  the  entire  bridge,  while  he  would  certainly  have 
removed  them  if  they  had  displeased  him.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  was  so  delighted  with  them  that  he  made  them 
three  times  as  big  as  they -are  in  reality,  relatively  to  the 
width  of  the  arches.2 

We  will  now,  if  the  reader  pleases,  turn  up  the  narrow 
arm  of  the  Seine  till  we  come  to  the  Pont  St.  Michel. 
There  is  a  particularly  fine  view  from  this  bridge,  of 
which  Lalanne  made  a  very  successful  etching  many 
years  ago.  The  beauty  of  it  consists  chiefly  in  the  dis- 
tance, which  shows  the  long  perspective  of  the  Louvre 
immediately  above  the  Pont  Neuf.  All  the  bridges  on 
the  island  except  the  Pont  Neuf  have  been  carried  away 
by  some  disaster;  but  that  famous  one  has  become  a 
proverb  for  a  sound  and  lasting  constitution,  so  that 
robust  Frenchmen  proudly  compare  themselves  to  it, 
and  complimentary  ones  apply  the  comparison  to  their 
friends  (never  to  their  political  opponents,  who  are 
always  represented  as  unhealthy).  Few  bridges  have 
been  more  unlucky  than  the  Pont  St.  Michel.  In 
the  fifteenth  century  it  was  carried  away  by  a  pack  of 

1  In  this  view  we   are   looking  dawn  the   river  from  the  Quai  des 
Orfevres. 

2  This  assertion  is  founded  on  strict  measurement.    In  reality  the  semi- 
circular projections  on  the  Pont  Neuf  measure  less  than  one  third  the 
diameter  of  the  arch.     In  Turner's  drawing,  those  to  the  left  are  repre- 
sented as  equivalent  in  their  diameters  to  the  diameters  of  the  arches 
under  them. 


THE   MORGUE   IN    1840. 


A  Voyage  round  the  Island.  5  3 

moving  ice.  It  was  again  carried  away  in  the  middle  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  and  destroyed  again  in  the  seven- 
teenth. The  next  structure  was  of  stone,  with  houses ; 
the  present  one  was  built  by  that  \x\\e  pontif ex  maximus, 
Napoleon  III. 

Close  to  the  Pont  St.  Michel,  on  the  island  shore,  used 
to  stand  a  famous  little  building  which  had  at  one  time 
been  a  bouclierie,  and  which  for  many  years  served  as 
the  dead-house  for  bodies  found  in  the  Seine.  The 
"  Doric  little  Morgue  "  will  long  be  remembered  on  ac- 
count of  the  immortality  conferred  upon  it  by  novelists 
and  also  by  at  least  one  famous  poet,  Browning,  and 
one  great  artist,  Meryon. 

"  First  came  the  silent  gazers  ;  next 

A  screen  of  glass,  we  're  thankful  for ; 
Last,  the  sight's  self,  the  sermon's  text, 

The  three  men  who  did  most  abhor 
Their  life  in  Paris  yesterday, 

So  killed  themselves  :  and  now,  enthroned 
Each  on  his  copper  couch,  they  lay 

Fronting  me,  waiting*  to  be  owned. 
I  thought,  and  think,  their  sin's  atoned. 

"  Poor  men,  God  made,  and  all  for  that ! 

The  reverence  struck  me ;  o'er  each  head 
Religiously  was  hung  its  hat, 

Each  coat  dripped  by  the  owner's  bed, 
Sacred  from  touch  :  each  had  his  berth, 

His  boards,  his  proper  place  of  rest, 
Who  last  night  tenanted  on  earth 

Some  arch  where  twelve  such  slept  abreast,  — 
Unless  the  plain  asphalte  seemed  best." 


54  Paris. 

The  Petit  Pont  is  of  far  greater  historical  interest 
than  the  Pont  St.  Michel.  At  the  present  day  it  con- 
sists of  a  single  stone  arch  of  depressed  curve,  and  is 
precisely  the  sort  of  structure  in  which  the  modern 
engineer  displays  his  skill ;  but  the  rather  elegant  and 
extremely  simple  Petit  Pont  of  the  present  day  has 
had  many  very  different  predecessors.  At  that  spot  the 
Romans  had  a  bridge  joining  Lutetia  to  the  mainland ; 
and  just  here,  where  the  bridge  abuts  on  the  south  bank 
of  the  Seine,  the  gate,  fortress,  and  prison  called  the 
Petit  Chdtelet  stood  grimly  in  the  Middle  Ages,  and  even 
down  to  the  last  years  of  the  eighteenth  century.  It 
was  a  building  of  sinister  aspect,  with  few  openings  to 
the  light  of  day,  and  nothing  in  the  way  of  ornament 
except  four  simple  string-courses  and  about  as  many 
bartizans.  A  Gothic  archway  led  through  it  from  the 
bridge.  I  willingly  spare  the  reader  an  account  of  the 
cruelties  committed  in  this  building,  and  will  speak  of 
the  bridge  only.  Unlucky  as  were  the  other  bridges  of 
the  citf,  this  was  the  most  unfortunate  of  all.  It  is  said 
that  the  rapidity  of  the  current  in  flood-times  was  the 
cause  of  successive  accidents,  now  happily  at  an  end  by 
the  construction  of  a  single  arch  beneath  which  the 
floods  rise  freely.  M.  Jourdain  tells  us,  in  "  Paris  a 
travers  les  Ages,"  that  the  Petit  Pont  fell  in  1206,  1280, 
1296,  1325,  1376,  and  1393  ;  but  the  most  remarkable  of 
all  its  misfortunes  occurred  much  later,  in  1718.  At  that 
date  it  consisted  of  a  good  stone  bridge  of  three  arches 
covered  with  tall  stone  houses ;  but  it  seems  as  if  the 
contemporary  engineers  had  not  much  confidence  in 


A   Voyage  round  the  Island,  55 

their  strength,  for  beneath  the  arches,  and  also  at  the 
ends  of  the  piers,  there  were  strong  wooden  scaffoldings, 
like  those  supporting  the  pump  that  Meryon  drew. 
Now  it  so  happened  in  that  year  1718,  in  the  month 
of  April,  that  a  woman  had  lost  her  son  by  drowning, 
and  that  her  grief  was  greatly  increased  because  she 
could  not  find  his  body ;  wherefore  the  good  folks,  her 
neighbors,  told  her  of  a  sure  method  by  which  drowned 
bodies  might  be  found,  and  she  believed  and  obeyed 
them.  She  took  a  sebille,  which  is  a  thick,  round  wooden 
tray  or  dish,  she  stuck  a  taper  upright  in  it,  which  she 
lighted,  and  with  the  taper  she  put  a  piece  of  blessed 
bread,  the  whole  in  honor  of  St.  Nicholas ;  she  then 
confided  her  little  boat  to  the  current  and  watched  its 
course.  It  floated  straight  to  a  barge  laden  with  hay, 
the  taper  set  fire  to  the  hay,  the  men  in  the  barges  near 
to  it  severed  the  rope  that  fastened  it  in  order  to  save 
their  boats ;  and  now,  instead  of  the  little  votive  taper 
in  its  wooden  dish,  a  great  blazing  haystack  floated 
quickly  down  to  the  Petit  Pont,  where  it  was  stopped 
by  the  wooden  piles  under  the  arch.  These  soon  caught 
fire,  and  so  did  all  the  houses,  but  the  fortress  of  the 
Petit  Chatelet  remained  uninjured.  The  houses  were 
never  rebuilt. 

There  is  now  nothing  whatever  of  visible  interest  be- 
tween the  Petit  Pont  and  the  upper  extremity  of  the 
island,  except  the  view  of  the  south  side  of  Notre  Dame. 
Changes  within  our  own  recollection  have  entirely 
altered  this  part  of  Paris,  much  to  its  advantage.  The 
old  Hotel  Dieu  occupied  the  whole  space  between  the 


56  Paris. 

present  Petit  Pont  and  the  then  existing  Pont  au  Double, 
which  stood  higher  up  the  river  than  the  bridge  now 
bearing  the  same  name;  and  not  only  did  the  great 
hospital  occupy  a  long  range  of  building,  as  ugly  as  a 
factory,  on  the  island,  but  it  also  had  another  large 
building  across  the  water,  on  the  south  bank  of  the 
Seine,  and  a  block  called  the  Salle  St.  Cosine  on  the 
bridge  between  them.  All  this  effectually  obstructed 
the  view  of  Notre  Dame ;  and,  indeed,  that  half  of  the 
hospital  which  stood  upon  the  island  was  on  what  is 
now  the  open  space  in  front  of  the  cathedral.  Artists 
are  not  agreed  as  to  the  policy  of  disengaging  cathedrals 
so  much  as  Notre  Dame  is  now  disengaged ;  and  cer- 
tainly the  cathedral  at  Rouen  comes  upon  us  with  a 
sudden  impressiveness  in  the  midst  of  the  narrow  streets 
and  from  the  small  market-place,  —  an  impressiveness 
which  would  be  lost  if  it  could  be  set  in  the  middle  of 
a  large  field ;  but  Notre  Dame  was  in  former  times  so 
much  injured  by  the  vast  size  of  the  ill-contrived  old 
HQtel  Dieu,  that  the  removal  of  that  particular  obstruc- 
tion is  unquestionably  a  great  gain.  In  old  times  the 
cathedral  used  to  be  hidden  in  a  considerable  degree  by 
the  archeveche,  now  entirely  removed.  The  archbishop 
now  lives  in  a  fine  Louis  XIV.  mansion  in  the  Rue  Gre- 
nelle  St.  Germain.  The  accompanying  reproduction  of 
an  etching  by  Israel  Sylvestre  shows  the  Archbishop's 
Palace  as  it  existed  in  the  seventeenth  century,  and  the 
reader  may  also  see  how  the  buildings  of  the  Hotel  Dieu 
stretched  across  the  river. 

Nothing  remains  to  be  said  concerning  our  circum- 


A   Voyage  round  the  Island.  5  7 

navigation  of  the  island  except  that  the  eastern  point  of 
it,  which  in  the  Middle  Ages  was  a  shapeless  piece  of 
waste  land  called  Le  Terrain,  and  in  the  eighteenth 
century  a  garden  called  the  Jardin  du  Terrain,  is  at 
present  very  neatly  arranged  in  true  modern  Parisian 
style,  and  serves  as  a  pretty  site  for  a  melancholy  little 
structure,  the  new  Morgue,  to  which  the  inhabitants  of 
southern  Paris  have  immediate  access  by  the  Pont  de 
1'Archeveche,  a  bridge  which,  unlike  its  elder  brethren, 
has  no  history. 

A  sketch  of  Anglers  by  Mr.  Jacomb  Hood  gives  a  bit 
of  topography  in  its  background  which  illustrates  our 
present  subject.  The  anglers  are  on  the  Quai  des  Tour- 
nelles,  the  church  is  Notre  Dame  (showing  the  apse), 
the  bridge  is  the  Pont  de  1'Archeveche,  and  the  bit  of 
land  going  from  the  bridge  to  the  spectator's  right  is 
what  was  formerly  called  Le  Terrain,  and  is  now  well 
embanked  and  defended  by  a  river-wall ;  while  the  low 
building  whose  roof  seems  to  crown  the  wall  near  the 
boy's  fishing-rod  is  the  present  Morgue. 

The  quays  on  both  sides  of  the  Seine  appear  to  be- 
long more  to  the  ordinary  life  of  the  city  than  the  more 
recently  built  embankment  of  the  Thames.  It  gener- 
ally happens  that  some  idle  youth  may  be  seen  lounging 
over  the  parapet  and  watching  sympathetically  an  ab- 
sorbed angler  below  who  from  some  stair,  or  boat  at 
anchor,  or  narrow  ledge  of  masonry,  pursues  through 
successive  hours  his  mildly  exciting  sport.  It  is  one  of 
the  most  curious  contrasts  in  the  French  character  that, 
although  it  is  said  to  be  impatient,  and  often  shows 


58  Paris. 

remarkable  irritability,  it  is  nevertheless  exactly  adapted 
to  the  humblest  and  dullest  sort  of  angling.  Nothing 
can  exceed  the  patience  of  Parisian  anglers  or  their 
entire  absorption  in  their  pursuit.  So  completely  do 
they  forget  everything  else  in  the  indulgence  of  their 
passion,  that  during  the  dreadful  day  of  the  Commune, 
the  24th  of  May,  1871,  when  the  Communards  were 
setting  fire  to  the  public  buildings,  and  the  soldiers  from 
Versailles  were  shooting  down  the  people  in  the  streets, 
one  or  two  faithful  pecheurs  a  la  ligne  still  followed  their 
tranquil  pastime  close  to  one  of  the  bridges;  I  believe 
it  was  the  Pont  Neuf. 


AN  ,LEKS    ON   THE   QUAYS. 


IV. 

NOTRE  DAME  AND  THE  SAINTE  CHAPELLE. 

THERE  are  absolutely  only  these  two  churches  left 
standing  in  the  island  of  the  city,  and  there  is 
nothing  in  the  history  of  Paris  which  more  clearly  ex- 
hibits the  modern  disposition  to  make  a  tabula  rasa  of 
the  past.  The  wonder  is  that  Notre  Dame  and  the  Sainte 
Chapelle  should  themselves  have  been  preserved  down 
to  our  own  time.  There  they  stand,  however,  somewhat 
injured  by  restoration,  yet  happily  not  so  much  as  they 
might  have  been,  and  likely  to  last  for  centuries  still  to 
come,  considering  their  present  excellent  condition  of 
material  repair. 

But  where  is  the  crowd  of  little  churches  that  clus- 
tered round  Notre  Dame,  as  children  round  their  great 
mother?  In  the  Middle  Ages  she  seemed  to  gather 
them  about  her  as  a  hen  gathers  her  chickens  under  her 
wings;  but  now  they  are  all  gone,  and  she  would  be 
left  in  the  most  complete  solitude  were  it  not  that  from 
the  court  of  the  Palace  of  Justice  there  still  rises  one 
solitary  spire  answering  to  hers,  and  still,  as  in  the  Middle 
Ages,  the  birds  fly  from  one  to  the  other. 

But  where  is  St.  Denis  du  Pas,  where  is  St.  Jean  le 
Rond,  and  where  may  St.  Christopher,  Ste.  Genevieve, 


60  Paris. 

St.  Agnan,  St.  Landry,  St.  Peter,  St.  Denis  de  la  Chartre, 
Ste.  Marine,  and  the  Magdalen,  find  the  churches  once 
dedicated  to  them?  Can  you  discover  even  the  sites  of 
St.  Luke,  Ste.  Croix,  and  St.  Germain  le  Vieux?  Have 
you  ever  seen  St.  Pierre  des  Areas,  St.  Barthelemi,  and 
St.  Eloi?  "  There  is  my  bridge  still,"  Saint  Michael  may 
think ;  "  but  as  for  my  church,  I  seek  for  it  in  vain !  " 
Where  are  all  these  churches  of  the  past,  which  once 
stood  in  consecrated  ground,  and  were  thought  to  be  safe 
forever,  —  churches  adorned  by  the  mediaeval  architect, 
often  repaired  and  injured  by  later  experimentalists  at 
the  Renaissance,  yet  interesting  always  for  the  bits  of 
beautiful  old  work  to  be  found  in  them?  Ou  sont  les 
neiges  d'antan  f 

Before  the  present  cathedral  of  Notre  Dame  there 
was  a  predecessor  built  by  Childebert,  of  which  we  do 
not  know  very  much.  It  occupied  part  of  the  site  of 
the  present  edifice,  standing  near  the  Roman  wall,  and 
to  the  southeast  of  it  there  was  another  church  dedicated 
to  Saint  Stephen.  The  site  of  the  original  Notre  Dame 
'is  now  partly  covered  by  the  west  front  of  the  edifice 
and  a  small  portion  of  the  nave,  and  partly  left  open  in 
the  space  before  the  cathedral.  It  was  of  Romanesque 
architecture  and  of  some  splendor.  Probably,  if  it  had 
been  preserved  to  the  present  day,  we  should  have 
looked  upon  it  with  great  interest  as  a  very  early  speci- 
men of  church-building,  but  it  is  not  likely  that  it  would 
have  produced,  on  our  minds,  accustomed  as  we  are  to 
the  magnificence  of  fully  developed  Gothic,  the  effect 
that  it  produced  on  its  own  contemporaries.  As  for  the 


W 

ai 

H    2 


Noire  Dame  and  the  Sainte  Chapelle.       6 1 

site  of  St.  Etienne,  the  present  sacristy  stands  on  a  part 
of  it. 

The  present  cathedral  of  Notre  Dame  was  begun  in 
1161,  the  first  stone  being  laid  by  a  Pope,  —  Alex- 
ander III., —  and  in  1185  mass  was  said  at  the  high 
altar.  This  would  only  prove  that  the  choir  was  finished, 
or  at  least  covered  in.  The  southern  entrance  was  be- 
gun in  1257,  and  the  great  western  entrance  from  the 
Place  du  Parois  was  finished  in  1223,  up  to  the  line  of 
the  gallery.  The  towers  were  finished  in  the  time  of 
Saint  Louis. 

An  important  matter  in  the  history  of  Notre  Dame  is 
the  fire  of  1218,  caused  by  thieves,  because  that  brought 
about  an  architectural  alteration  clearly  described  as 
follows  by  M.  Drumont  in  "  Paris  a  travrse  les  Ages :  " 

"  Before  this  fire  the  great  flying  buttresses  of  the  nave  and 
choir  were  constructed  a  double  -voice,  which  means  that  instead 
of  crossing  over  the  space  between  the  buttresses  and  the  vaults 
in  arches  of  a  single  span,  they  were  composed  of  two  portions 
or  arches,  with  an  intermediate  support.  The  fire  probably  in- 
jured the  second  span  of  the  old  flying  buttresses.  At  that  time 
other  cathedrals  had  been  erected,  and  their  walls  were  pierced 
with  larger  windows,  filled  with  brilliantly  stained  glass,  —  a  deco- 
ration which  was  rapidly  becoming  important.  Instead  of  repair- 
ing the  harm  done  by  the  fire,  the  restorers  of  that  time  seized 
upon  the  opportunity  for  suppressing  the  rose-windows  pierced 
above  the  galleries,  and  brought  the  upper  windows  lower,  cut- 
ting away  their  support  down  to  the  archivolt  of  the  galleries. 
The  flying  buttresses  a  double  voice  were  demolished,  and  the 
height  of  the  windows  of  the  triforium  was  reduced  by  lowering 
its  vaults." 


62  Paris. 

The  tall  windows  were  filled  with  simple  tracery,  and 
in  the  opinion  of  Viollet-le-Duc  the  majesty  of  the  first 
edifice  was  in  a  great  measure  sacrificed  by  these 
changes.  So  far  as  I  am  able  to  judge  by  M.  Hoff- 
bauer's  drawing,  which  restores  the  apse  to  its  primitive 
condition,  and  shows  the  double-arched  buttresses,  the 
most  striking  difference  between  the  first  apse  and  the 
present  one  was  in  the  successive  stages  of  roof  which 
were  visible  in  the  first,  while  at  present  only  the  high- 
est roof  is  visible,  the  others  having  been  so  much 
lowered  in  pitch  to  make  way  for  the  elongated  windows 
that  they  are  no  more  to  be  seen.  The  change,  in  fact, 
is  that  change  which  we  find  everywhere  in  the  progress 
of  Gothic  architecture,  —  from  a  simple,  strong-looking, 
and  dignified  style,  to  a  lighter,  more  airy,  more  deli- 
cate, and  elegant  style.  It  is  perfectly  intelligible  that 
a  master  of  architecture  like  Viollet-le-Duc,  who  knew 
all  about  construction,  should  have  preferred  the  first 
apse,  with  its  short,  plain  windows,  its  visible  tiers  of 
roof,  and  its  substantial,  doubly  supported  buttresses; 
but,  at  the  same  time,  it  is  intelligible  that  most  people 
should  prefer  the  east  end  of  the  church  as  it  exists  at 
present,  with  its  light,  far-leaping  buttresses,  its  long 
clerestory  windows,  and  the  rich  windows  of  the  chapels 
and  aisle,  decorated  externally  with  crockets  and  finials. 
Besides,  there  are  many  pinnacles  now  (people  always 
like  pinnacles,  —  the  great  popularity  of  Milan  Cathedral 
is  due  to  them),  and  it  does  not  appear  that  there  were 
any  pinnacles  about  the  first  apse. 

The  great  west  front,  where  the  towers  are,  is  one  of 


Notre  Dame  and  the  Sainte  Ckapelle.        63 

the  chief  architectural  glories  of  France.  There  is  hardly 
any  work  of  architecture  in  the  whole  world,  except  one 
or  two  Greek  temples,  which  has  evoked  the  same  kind 
and  degree  of  admiration  as  the  west  front  of  Notre 
Dame.  It  is  considered  to  be  one  of  those  rarest  pro- 
ducts of  consummate  genius  in  which  imagination  of 
the  highest  kind  works  in  perfect  accordance  with  the 
most  severe  reason.  May  I  confess  frankly  that  until 
I  had  carefully  studied  it  under  the  guidance  of  Viollet- 
le-Duc,  the  front  of  Notre  Dame  never  produced  upon 
me  the  same  effect  as  the  west  fronts  of  some  other 
French  cathedrals  of  equal  rank?  I  believe  the  reason 
to  be  that  Notre  Dame  is  not  so  picturesque  as  some 
others,  and  does  not  so  much  excite  the  imagination  as 
they  do.  It  is  well  ordered,  and  a  perfectly  sane  piece 
of  work  (which  Gothic  architecture  is  not  always),  but 
it  has  not  the  imaginative  intricacy  of  Rouen,  nor  the 
rich  exuberance  of  Amiens  and  Reims,  nor  the  fortress- 
like  grandeur  of  Bourges,  nor  the  elegant  variety  of 
Chartres.  A  man  of  very  high  architectural  attainments 
would  probably  value  the  romantic  element  less  than  I 
do,  simply  because  much  that  seems  rich  and  imaginative 
to  an  amateur  in  architecture  is  understood  too  quickly 
in  all  its  details  by  a  master  for  it  to  produce  the  same 
poetic  feeling  in  his  mind ;  and  I  observe  that  architects 
esteem  especially  the  judicious  ordonnance  of  parts, 
which  is  a  great  virtue  no  doubt,  but  a  very  sober  vir- 
tue, imposing  a  very  strict  discipline  on  the  imagination. 
The  truth  is,  that  the  virtues  of  the  west  front  of  Notre 
Dame  are  rather  classic  than  romantic.  Everything  in 


64  Paris. 

it  seems  the  result  of  perfect  knowledge  and  consum- 
mate calculation.  There  are  none  of  those  mistakes 
which  generally  occur  in  works  of  wilder  genius.  Story 
after  story  the  massive  front  rears  itself  to  the  towers ; 
every  division  of  it  is  acceptable  either  as  a  resting-place 
for  the  eye  or  as  an  attraction.  First,  you  have  the 
three  great  doorways,  with  the  world  of  sculpture  usual 
in  the  French  Gothic  portals,  but  the  row  of  statues 
does  not  come  out  and  round  the  buttresses  as  at 
Amiens  and  Reims.  The  buttresses  are  left  plain  ex- 
cept that  there  is  a  niche  in  each  of  them  twenty  feet 
from  the  ground,  and  one  statue  in  each  niche  with 
its  feet  higher  than  the  heads  of  the  great  statues. 
Above  the  arches  the  wall  is  perfectly  plain  instead  of 
being  enriched  with  crocketed  gables,  as  at  Amiens  and 
Reims ;  and  above  this  plain  space  comes  the  great 
gallery  of  the  kings,  with  its  twenty-eight  statues  in 
their  niches.  Over  this  gallery  runs  a  sort  of  platform 
or  balcony  called  the  Galerie  de  la  Vierge ;  and  then 
we  come  to  the  great  space  of  wall,  very  plain  in  itself, 
which  is  occupied  by  the  great  windows,  the  rose  in  the 
middle  and  the  ogival  windows,  of  two  lights  and  a  rose 
above,  in  each  of  the  towers.  Perhaps  the  most  espe- 
cially characteristic  thing  in  this  front  is  the  light  colon- 
nade above  the  windows,  which  makes  a  sort  of  open 
screen  in  the  space  between  the  towers,  and  by  this 
means  prevents  too  much  abruptness  in  the  separation 
of  the  towers  from  the  main  mass  of  the  building.  This 
colonnade  is  not  only  extremely  elegant  in  itself,  but  it 
is  placed  with  so  much  judgment  as  to  give  a  lightness 


TYMPANUM   OF  THE  PORTE   STE.   ANNE. 


Notre  Dame  and  the  Sainte  Chape  lie.       65 

to  the  whole  front,  which  could  hardly  have  been  ob- 
tained by  any  other  means.  The  upper  part  of  the 
towers  is  remarkable  for  the  great  length  of  the  open- 
ings (about  fifty  feet),  and  both  towers  seem  to  termi- 
nate very  plainly  and  abruptly,  having  no  pinnacles  and 
nothing  to  relieve  the  level  line  except  the  little  turrets 
at  the  top  of  the  staircases.  This,  however,  is  explained 
by  the  fact  that  it  was  intended  to  have  spires,  and  that 
the  towers  we  see  were  entirely  designed  with  a  view  to 
them.  That  project  was  never  carried  into  execution, 
and  even  the  enterprise  of  the  nineteenth  century  shrank 
from  it  when  Notre  Dame  was  restored.  Is  the  absence 
of  the  spires  to  be  regretted?  We  have  some  means  of 
judging  this  question  by  a  comparison  of  the  west  front 
as  it  is  with  the  drawing  of  it  with  spires  which  was 
engraved  and  published  in  the  "  Entretiens  sur  1'Archi- 
tecture,"  by  Viollet-le-Duc.  So  far  as  the  towers  only 
are  concerned,  the  effect  of  the  spires  is  excellent. 
They  at  once  reduce  the  long  louvre-windows  to  due 
proportions,  and  remove  the  otherwise  unaccountable 
plainness  of  the  summits  of  the  square  towers.  But  on 
the  rest  of  the  front  the  effect  of  the  spires  is  not  so 
happy.  The  arcade  is  tall  enough  not  to  be  stunted  by 
them,  but  the  gallery  of  the  kings  and  the  great  door- 
ways are  made  to  appear  much  more  insignificant  than 
they  are  at  present.  At  the  same  time  two  consider- 
ations ought  not  to  be  forgotten.  It  is  quite  possible 
that  the  spires  intended  by  the  mediaeval  architect  may 
have  been  lighter  in  appearance  than  those  designed  by 
Viollet-le-Duc,  and  it  is  also  to  be  remembered  that  an 

5 


66  Paris. 

architect's  elevation  always  produces  quite  a  different 
effect  upon  the  mind  from  the  sight  of  the  reality  in 
stone.  Had  the  spires  been  completed,  no  one  ap- 
proaching close  enough  to  see  the  statues  in  the  portals 
and  in  the  gallery  of  the  kings  would  have  seen  the 
spires  at  the  same  time ;  he  would  only  have  been  con- 
scious of  their  existence. 

I  have  said  that  the  virtues  of  the  west  front  of 
Notre  Dame  are  rather  classic  than  romantic.  It  is 
a  generally  received  idea  that  exact  symmetry  was 
one  of  the  classical  characteristics;  but  a  closer  ex- 
amination of  classical  works  reveals  unsuspected  varie- 
ties in  measurements  which  are  supposed  to  have  had 
for  their  object  the  avoidance  of  mechanical  dulness. 
The  variety  in  Gothic  architecture  is  so  frequently 
apparent  that  the  popular  mind  associates  the  idea 
of  variety  with  Gothic  work  as  it  associates  symmetry 
with  Greek.  There  are,  however,  in  Gothic  buildings 
certain  parts  which  appear  to  be  symmetrical,  and 
which  frequently  are  not  so.  That  this  variety  was 
intentional  is  quite  certain.  An  architect  is  not  like 
a  landscape-painter  who  draws  by  the  eye,  and  may 
accidentally  make  one  object  smaller  than  another 
when  he  intended  them  to  be  alike.  An  architect 
measures  everything,  so  that,  so  far  as  dimensions  are 
concerned,  there  can  never  be  an  undetected  error  in 
his  completed  work.  The  two  towers  of  Notre  Dame, 
which  every  careless  tourist  believes  to  be  exactly  alike, 
are  not  of  the  same  size.  The  southern  tower  is  nar- 
rower than  the  other.  It  has  been  suggested  that  this 


PIER   AND   ONE    OF   THE   DOORS   OF   THE   PORTE    STE.    ANNE. 


Notre  Dame  and  the  Sainte  Ckapelle.        6  7 

may  have  been  to  give  better  access  to  the  bishop's 
residence,  which  was  on  that  side, .but  the  hypothesis 
is  unnecessary.  The  difference  is  sufficiently  explained 
by  the  dislike  for  exact  repetition,  which  is  a  charac- 
teristic of  living  work  in  the  fine  arts.  There  are 
also  differences  in  the  details,  sufficiently  visible  to 
give  reasons  for  preferring  one  of  the  towers  to  the 
other.  MM.  de  Guilhermy  and  Viollet-le-Duc  pre- 
ferred the  larger  tower,  that  to  the  north,  as  being 
more  ample  in  its  details  and  better  executed. 

A  detailed  description  of  the  sculpture  on  the  west 
front  would  occupy  many  pages,  and  be  unreadable. 
Of  the  three  portals,  that  in  the  middle  has  the  Last 
Judgment  for  the  subject  of  its  tympanum;  that  on 
the  north  side  illustrates  the  life,  death,  and  glorifica- 
tion of  the  Virgin ;  that  on  the  south  side  is  more 
confused.  It  is  called  the  portail  St.  Anne,  but  is 
composed  of  fragments  illustrating  the  lives  of  Saint 
Anne  and  the  Virgin  also.  It  is  curious  for  the 
adaptation  of  transitional  work  (from  Romanesque  to 
Gothic)  to  a  purely  Gothic  purpose.  As  the  carvings 
already  existed,  it  seems  to  have  been  thought  right 
to  employ  them,  but  they  would  not  fit  the  new  fashion 
of  the  pointed  arch  ;  so  the  space  between  the  two  kinds 
of  arch  had  to  be  dissimulated  by  filling  it  up  with 
an  enrichment  in  sculpture.  Notwithstanding  the  great 
ability  of  the  architect,  we  may  be  allowed  to  remark 
that  he  did  not  manage  his  raccord  so  cleverly  as  he 
might  have  done.  The  lower  arch  should  have  been 
effaced,  and  the  space  above  it  filled  with  angels.  One 


68  Paris. 

objection  applies  even  to  the  most  perfect  Gothic 
tympana  of  this  kind ;  namely,  the  varying  scales  of 
the  figures,  which  deprive  the  composition  of  unity. 

One  of  the  strong  points  in  Notre  Dame  is  the 
preservation  of  a  few  of  her  fine  old  doors.  Those 
of  the  Virgin  and  Saint  Anne  have  still  their  magnifi- 
cent original  iron-work  of  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth 
centuries.  The  common  people  used  to  believe  quite 
seriously  that  it  was  the  Devil  himself  who  had  helped 
the  smith  in  exchange  for  his  soul,  as  mere  unaided 
human  skill  was  unequal  to  such  a  task.  There  was 
also  a  popular  belief  that  an  enchanter  had  shut  the 
porte  Ste.  Anne  so  that  it  could  not  be  opened,  —  the  fact 
being  simply  that  for  a  long  time  it  was  disused. 

The  reader  must  excuse  me  if  I  do  not  enter  into 
details  with  reference  to  the  north  and  south  sides  of 
Notre  Dame.  We  have  not  space  for  a  study  of  the 
subject,  and  it  is  not  of  any  special  interest  except  as 
regards  the  buttresses,  which  are  very  massive,  and 
from  which  spring  two  arches  to  prop  the  walls,  one 
reaching  to  the  wall  of  the  higher  aisle,  by  passing  over 
the  roof  of  the  lower  aisle,  and  another  clearing  the 
roofs  of  both  the  aisles  in  two  leaps,  with  a  rest  on 
the  wall  between,  and  then  giving  its  support  directly 
to  the  lofty  walls  of  the  clerestory  itself.  Another 
notable  feature  in  the  north  and  south  fronts  is  the 
great  rose-windows  in  the  transepts,  which,  from  their 
height,  may  be  seen  from  a  distance. 

Now,  let  us  pass  into  the  interior.  The  first  thing 
that  strikes  anybody  conversant  with  architecture,  after 


LES  TRIBUNES. 


Notre  Dame  and  the  Sainte  Chapelle.       69 

the  first  strong  impression  of  size  and  majesty,  is  that 
the  columns  of  the  nave  are  massive  and  Romanesque 
in  character,  and  not  so  lofty,  relatively  to  the  height 
of  the  vault,  as  the  columns  at  Westminster  or  Amiens, 
not  to  speak  of  the  extraordinary  ones  at  Bourges. 
There  is,  in  fact,  room  for  no  less  than  five  of  these 
columns  between  the  pavement  and  the  apex  of  the 
vault.  When  Notre  Dame  was  begun  the  Romanesque 
spirit  was  only  just  passing  into  the  Gothic  spirit,  so 
that  the  church  is  not  quite  completely  Gothic  as  yet, 
though  very  nearly  so.  Its  double  aisles  are  a  remark- 
able feature,  of  great  value  in  giving  mysterious  dis- 
tances with  many  intersections  of  the  vaults.  They 
run  entirely  round  the  building,  and  have  allowed  the 
architect  the  means  of  creating  a  great  gallery  above 
the  inner  aisle  (which  is  wider  than  the  external  one) ; 
a  gallery  of  much  value  in  a  cathedral  where  magnifi- 
cent royal  ceremonies  were  expected  to  take  place. 
This  gallery  is  always  called  Les  Tribunes  by  French 
writers.  The  view  we  give  is  taken  on  the  south  side 
of  the  cathedral ;  and  the  reason  why  it  seems  to  come 
to  a  sudden  termination  is  because  the  transept  occurs 
there.  With  the  exception  of  the  interruption  caused 
by  the  transepts,  this  gallery  goes  round  the  entire 
edifice,  and  has  four  staircases  of  its  own.1  Not  only 
is  it  very  useful  on  great  occasions,  but  it  adds  im- 
mensely to  the  elegance  of  the  whole  church,  and 
looks  all  the  more  delicate  and  airy  because  it  is 
lighted  from  the  exterior. 

1  It  also  turns  aside  into  the  transepts  to  the  extent  of  two  large  bays. 


7<D  Paris. 

In  most  of  the  French  cathedrals  the  pourtour  die 
chazur,  or  aisle  between  the  apse  and  the  chapels, 
excels  all  other  portions  of  the  church  in  the  variety 
of  its  perspective  and  in  the  delightful  changes  occur- 
ring at  every  step  as  the  visitor  slowly  advances.  When 
he  walks  down  the  middle  of  a  straight  nave  between 
parallel  rows  of  columns,  he  may  be  impressed  by 
the  grandeur  that  surrounds  him,  but  he  always  knows 
what  to  expect.  In  the  pourtour  there  is  the  new 
element  of  the  unforeseen.  He  sees  first  one  part  of 
a  chapel  and  then  another;  he  loses  one  beautiful 
and  intricate  composition  of  columns,  vaults,  and 
windows,  only  to  exchange  it  for  another  not  less, 
beautiful;  and  so  attractive  is  the  desire  for  what  is, 
coming,  so  keen  the  regret  for  what  is  left  behind,, 
that  it  is  almost  equally  difficult  to  stay  in  one  place 
or  to  leave  it.  This,  at  least,  is  what  I  have  always, 
felt  in  the  few  great  pourtours  which  are  comparable 
to  that  of  Notre  Dame.  This  one,  in  particular,  has 
the  additional  intricacy  of  its  double  aisle,  and  now 
that  it  is  enriched  with  painted  glass  and  mural  illu- 
mination the  effect  is  at  the  same  time  more  splendid 
and  more  mysterious  than  in  the  chilly  eighteenth 
century. 

This  brings  one  to  speak  of  the  restorations  which 
have  been  carried  out  at  Notre  Dame  in  our  own  day. 
Nothing  is  easier  than  to  condemn  such  restorations, 
absolutely ;  but  those  who  do  so  cannot  surely  realize 
what  was  the  state  of  such  edifices  as  Notre  Dame  be- 
fore the  modern  restorer  dealt  with  them.  It  should  be 


THE    "  POURTOUR." 


Notre  Dame  and  the  Sainte  Chapelle.        7 1 

remembered  that  no  age  but  our  own  ever  had  the 
slightest  respect  for  the  work  of  any  preceding  age, 
that  we  are  the  first  human  beings  who  ever  valued 
the  architectural  work  of  our  ancestors,  the  first  who 
were  ever  pained  by  injury  done  to  the  work  of  another 
time,  the  first  who  ever  understood  that  unity  of  design 
might  be  one  of  the  merits  of  a  building.  Instances 
of  injury  done  to  great  edifices  before  the  modern  re- 
storer came  are  infinitely  numerous ;  but  I  must  here 
confine  myself  to  Notre  Dame.  First,  let  us  rapidly 
survey  the  exterior. 

In  the  west  front  the  row  of  statues  called  the  Kings 
had  been  all  cast  down  at  the  Revolution.  Were  the 
niches  to  be  left  empty  ?  Certainly  the  original  archi- 
tect never  intended  them  to  be  empty ;  his  intention  was 
that  there  should  be  statues,  and  the  modern  restorer 
fulfilled  that  intention,  so  far  by  putting  statues  there. 
The  subjects  are  supposed  to  have  been  the  Kings  of 
Judah,  and  as  the  real  faces  of  those  kings  have  not 
come  down  to  posterity  in  portraits,  the  present  set  of 
statues  are  as  much  likenesses  as  their  predecessors. 
The  important  point  was  to  have  statues  in  keeping 
with  the  character  of  the  building ;  and  this  was  done 
as  far  as  possible  by  copying  such  fragments  of  the  old 
statues  as  could  be  found,  and  by  imitating  others  in 
cathedrals  of  the  same  date.  The  restorer  could  not 
have  done  less,  and  it  is  not  easy  to  see  how  he  could 
have  done  more.  Now  let  us  pass  to  the  central  door- 
way. Among  the  lights  of  the  eighteenth  century  was 
a  famous  architect  called  Soufflot,  who  fancied  that  he 


72  Paris. 

could  improve  upon  Gothic  ideas,  and  who,  unfortu- 
nately, had  the  power  to  alter  as  well  as  to  criticise. 
So  he  removed  the  pier  between  the  doors,  with  the 
statue  of  Christ,  and  made  a  wide  pointed  arch  in  the 
middle  of  the  tympanum,  cutting  into  its  elaborate 
sculpture  as  coolly  as  if  it  had  been  a  common  brick 
wall.  Then  he  put  classical  columns,  with  modern 
doors,  and  was  perfectly  satisfied  with  his  improvement. 
Could  Lassus  and  Viollet-le-Duc,  the  restorers,  leave 
this  incongruous  absurdity  untouched?  Clearly  not. 
They  had  the  pier  replaced,  and  they  got  an  able 
sculptor,  Dechaume,  to  carve  a  Christ  for  it,  which  he 
did  after  careful  study  of  the  statues  at  Amiens  and 
Reims.  The  tympanum  was  restored  as  far  as  possible, 
and  Soufflot's  Renaissance  doors  were  replaced  by 
others  more  in  keeping  with  those  of  the  Virgin  and 
Saint  Anne.  Surely,  in  this  case  also,  it  would  hardly 
have  been  possible  to  do  less.  Other  details  might  be 
dwelt  upon  if  we  had  space ;  but  let  us  consider  a  little 
what  was  the  condition  of  the  north  and  south  sides. 
Let  us  hear  Viollet-le-Duc's  account  of  the  state  in 
which  he  found  them :  — 

"They  (the  architects  of  the  eighteenth  and  nineteenth 
centuries)  had  altered  in  the  most  deplorable  manner  the 
architecture  of  the  sides  of  the  nave.  One  might  say  that  this 
portion  of  the  edifice  had  been,  as  it  were,  planed.  One  after 
another  the  architects  had  suppressed  the  advancing  parts  of 
the  buttresses  between  the  chapels,  the  gables,  the  friezes,  the 
balustrades,  —  in  one  word,  the  entire  ornamentation  of  these 
same  chapels,  the  pinnacles  which  decorated  the  tops  of  the 
buttresses  with  the  statues  that  accompanied  them  and  their 


Noire  Dame  and  the  Sainte  Chapelle.        73 

flowering  spires,  the  picturesque  gargoyles  which  rendered 
the  service  of  throwing  the  rain-water  to  a  distance  from  the 
walls." 

Were  the  restorers  to  leave  the  sides  of  the  cathedral 
in  this  naked  condition,  or  were  they  to  attempt  to 
adorn  them  again  as  nearly  as  possible  according 
to  the  first  intention  of  the  builders?  They  decided 
to  make  the  attempt,  and  they  felt  authorized  to  do  so 
because  they  knew  more  about  Gothic  architecture,  and 
had  more  love  for  it,  than  any  other  architects  since 
the  Renaissance.  At  the  intersection  of  the  roof  there 
had  been  a  light  spire  in  Gothic  times,  —  light,  I  mean, 
in  appearance,  made  of  oak,  covered  with  lead.  This 
spire  was  pulled  down  in  1793.  Was  its  place  to  be 
left  vacant?  Certainly  there  was  no  inability  to  erect 
an  elegant  new  spire,  as  the  one  now  existing  clearly 
proves.  The  architect  Soufflot,  who  spoiled  the  great 
doorway,  had  built  a  vestry  on  the  south  side  of  the 
cathedral  in  a  style  which  the  reader  may  imagine.  Part 
of  it  remained  to  our  own  day,  but  this  was  removed, 
and  a  new  one  erected  by  Viollet-le-Duc  in  thirteenth- 
century  Gothic.  There  are  two  objections  to  this  build- 
ing: it  looks  rather  too  pretty  and  too  intentionally 
contrived  for  the  picturesque,  and  its  newness  is  still  out 
of  keeping,  but  it  does  no  harm  whatever  to  Notre 
Dame.  It  would  be  difficult  to  suggest  anything  better. 
Now,  with  regard  to  the  interior.  Here  the  ignorance 
and  bad  taste  of  the  ages  in  which  Gothic  architecture 
was  not  understood  had  full  play  for  several  generations. 
The  choir  of  a  church  is  the  part  most  richly  furnished 


74  Paris. 

and  decorated.  In  the  Middle  Ages  the  choir  of  Notre 
Dame  was  completely  furnished  with  all  the  elaborate 
works  of  art  which  the  feeling  of  the  time  held  to  be 
necessary  in  a  great  religious  edifice ;  and  down  to  the 
close  of  the  seventeenth  century  these  things  were  still 
in  existence.  There  were  the  old  stalls  of  the  fourteenth 
century;  there  was  a  magnificent  carved  screen  in  open 
stonework  going  all  round  the  choir;  there  was  the 
high  altar,  with  its  columns  of  brass,  its  shrine  of  silver- 
gilt,  its  winged  angels.  All  these  things  disappeared 
to  make  way  for  costly  Renaissance  decorations,  which 
have  been  respected  as  far  as  possible  by  the  modern 
restorers.  In  1741  the  Chapter  gave  orders  for  the  re- 
moval of  the  splendid  stained  glass  which  filled  the 
windows  of  the  nave  and  choir;  and  a  man  called 
Pierre  Levieil  was  ordered  to  replace  them  with  common 
glass  ornamented  with  a  border  of  fleurs-de-lis.  Levieil 
set  about  his  work  honestly  and  innocently,  believing 
that  it  was  quite  proper  to  destroy  what  future  ages 
could  never  replace,  and  he  has  left  in  writing  some 
record  of  his  doings.  Regret  for  all  the  magnificence 
thus  lost  forever  is  happily  tempered  by  rejoicing,  as  it 
most  fortunately  happened  that  the  barbarians  let  alone 
the  great  rose-windows  of  the  transepts  and  the  west 
front.  Modern  art  has  endeavored  in  some  measure  to 
replace  what  was  destroyed,  being  clearly  authorized 
to  do  so  by  the  intention  of  the  original  builders,  who 
counted  upon  the  effect  of  colored  glass  in  temper- 
ing the  excess  of  light.  Viollet-le-Duc  went  a  little 
further  in  one  detail,  for  he  took  the  opportunity  of 


ROYAL   THANKSGIVING   IN   NOTKE  DAME,    1782. 


Notre  Da?ne  and  the  Sainte  Chapelle.        75 

opening  new  rose-windows  above  the  tribunes,  near  the 
transepts  and  choir,  to  recall  the  original  arrangement 
by  which  such  windows  existed  over  the  arches  of  the 
tribunes.  This  adds  to  the  interest  and  peculiarity  of 
the  building,  and  has  an  historical  reference. 

All  that  remains  to  be  said  about  the  restoration  is 
that  the  architects  found  Notre  Dame  entirely  covered 
internally  with  thick  coats  of  colored  washes,  which 
they  removed  for  two  reasons,  —  firstly,  because  they 
were  hideous ;  and,  secondly,  because  they  prevented 
the  masons  from  examining  the  condition  of  the  stone- 
work and  making  the  necessary  repairs. 

The  degree  to  which  Gothic  architecture  was  appre- 
ciated in  the  eighteenth  century  may  be  judged  of  by 
the  fact  that  when  the  old  painted  glass  was  removed, 
the  nave  was  turned  into  a  picture-gallery,  so  as  to  hide 
every  one  of  the  arches, — as  if  there  could  be  anything 
more  necessary  than  its  arches  to  the  effect  of  a  Gothic 
church  !  The  pictures  are  now,  happily,  removed. 
Good  or  bad,  they  were  equally  out  of  place.  Pic- 
tures, other  than  mural  paintings  of  a  severely  conven- 
tional kind,  always  are  out  of  place  in  spacious  Gothic 
interiors. 

The  origin  of  the  Sainte  Chapelle  is  probably  known 
already  to  most  of  my  readers.  It  is  nothing  more 
than  a  large  stone  shrine  to  contain  relics.  Nothing 
could  exceed  the  joy  of  Saint  Louis  when  he  believed 
himself  to  have  become  the  possessor  of  the  real  crown 
of  thorns  and  a  large  piece  of  the  true  cross.  He 
bought  them  at  a  very  high  price  from  the  Emperor  of 


76  Paris. 

Constantinople,1  and  held  them  in  such  reverence  that 
he  and  his  brother,  the  Count  of  Artois,  carried  them  in 
their  receptacle  on  their  shoulders  (probably  as  a  palan- 
quin is  carried),  walking  barefooted  through  the  streets 
of  Sens  and  Paris :  such  was  the  thoroughness  of  the 
King's  faith  and  his  humility  towards  the  objects  of  his 
veneration. 

These  feelings  led  Saint  Louis  to  give  orders  for  the 
erection  of  a  chapel  in  which  the  relics  were  to  be  pre- 
served, and  he  commanded  Peter  of  Montereau  to  build 
it,  which  Peter  did  very  speedily,  as  the  King  laid  the 
first  stone  in  1245,  and  the  edifice  was  consecrated  in 
April,  1248.  There  are  two  chapels,  a  low  one  on  the 
ground-floor  and  a  lofty  one  above  it;  so  both  were 
consecrated  simultaneously  by  different  prelates,  the 
upper  one  being  dedicated  to  the  Holy  Crown  and  the 
Holy  Cross,  the  other  to  the  Virgin  Mary. 

Considering  the  rapidity  of  the  work  done,  it  is  re- 
markable that  it  should  be,  as  it  is,  of  exceptionally 
excellent  quality  considered  simply  with  reference  to 
handicraft  and  to  the  materials  employed.  The  stone 
is  all  hard  and  carefully  selected,  while  each  course  is 
fixed  with  clamp-irons  imbedded  in  lead,  and  the  fitting 
of  the  stones,  according  to  Viollet-le-Duc,  is  "  (Tune 
precision  rare" 

1  Some  say  that  the  crown  of  thorns  was  purchased  from  John  of 
Brienne,  the  Emperor,  and  the  piece  of  the  true  cross  from  Baldwin  II., 
his  successor  ;  others  say  that  both  were  purchased  from  Baldwin  II. 
The  cost  to  Saint  Louis,  including  the  reliquaries,  is  said  to  have  been 
two  millions  of  livres.  So  far  as  the  King's  happiness  was  concerned, 
the  money  could  not  have  been  better  spent 


Notre  Dame  and  the  Sainte  Ckapelle.        77 

Like  Notre  Dame  the  Sainte  Chapelle  has  undergone 
thorough  and  careful  restoration  in  the  present  century. 
For  those  who  blame  such  restorations  indiscriminately 
I  will  give  a  short  description  of  the  state  of  the  build- 
ing when  it  was  placed  in  the  restorer's  hands.  It  had 
been  despoiled  at  the  Revolution  and  was  used  as  a 
magazine  for  law-papers.  The  spire  had  been  totally 
destroyed,  the  roof  was  in  bad  repair,  sculpture  injured 
or  removed,  the  internal  decoration  mostly  effaced,  the 
stained  glass  removed  from  the  lower  part  of  the  win- 
dows to  a  height  of  three  feet,  and  the  rest  patched  with 
fragments  regardless  of  subject.  The  chapel  was  an 
unvalued  survival  of  the  past,  falling  rapidly  into  com- 
plete decay,  and  surrounded  by  the  modern  buildings 
of  the  law  courts,  so  its  isolation  made  total  destruc- 
tion probable.  There  had  been  a  time  when  the 
Sainte  Chapelle  had  been  in  more  congenial  company. 
The  delightfully  fanciful  and  picturesque  old  Cour  des 
Comptes  had  been  built  under  Louis  XII.  (1504),  on 
the  southwest  side,  and  there  was  the  great  Gothic  Cour 
de  Mai,  and,  finally,  the  Great  Hall  on  the  north.  Not 
only  that,  but  there  was  the  Tresor  des  Chartes,  attached 
to  the  south  side  of  the  Sainte  Chapelle,  itself  a  treasure, 
almost  a  miniature  of  the  glorious  chapel,  with  its  own 
little  apse,  and  windows,  and  high-pitched  roof.  All 
these  treasures  of  architecture  were  gone  forever,  re- 
placed by  dull,  prosaic  building;  the  Sainte  Chapelle 
served  no  purpose  that  any  dry  attic  would  not  have 
served  equally  well,  and  there  seemed  to  be  no  reason 
why  it  should  not  be  destroyed  like  the  rest.  The 


78  Paris. 

decision  was  to  restore  it,  and  give  it  a  special  destina- 
tion as  the  place  where  the  lawyers  might  hear  the  mass 
of  the  Holy  Ghost.  The  work  was  done  thoroughly  and 
carefully  by  learned  and  accomplished  men.  M.  Lassus 
designed  a  new  spire,1  an  exquisitely  beautiful  work  of 
art,  much  more  elegant  than  its  predecessor,  as  the 
reader  may  judge  in  some  degree  by  comparing  the 
etching  with  the  woodcut.2  Still,  to  appreciate  the  new 
spire  properly,  one  needs  an  architectural  drawing  on  a 
large  scale,  like  that  in  the  monograph  by  Guilhermy. 
It  is  of  oak,  covered  with  lead,  with  two  open  arcades. 
There  are  pinnacles  between  the  gables  of  the  upper 
arcade,  and  on  these  pinnacles  are  eight  angels  with 
high,  folded  wings  and  trumpets.  Near  the  roof  are 
figures  of  the  twelve  apostles.  All  along  the  roof-ridge 
runs  an  open  crest-work,  and  at  the  point  over  the  apse 
stands  an  angel  with  a  cross.  All  these  things,  judi- 
ciously enlivened  by  gilding,  with  the  present  high 
pitch  of  the  roof,  add  greatly  to  the  poetical  impres- 
sion, especially  when  seen  in  brilliant  sunshine  against 
an  azure  sky. 

Thanks  to  the  restorers,  the  interior  of  the  chapel 
once  more  produces  the  effect  of  harmonious  splendor 
which  belonged  to  it  in  the  days  of  Saint  Louis.  Of  all 

1  The  spire  by  Lassus  is  the  fourth.     The  first,  by  Pierre  de  Monte- 
reau,  became  unsafe  from  old  age  ;  the  second  was  burnt  in  1630 ;  the 
third  was  destroyed  in  the  Great  Revolution. 

2  The  woodcut  is  from  a  picture  now  at  Versailles,  painted  by  an 
artist  named  Martin  in  1705.     It  is  possible  that  he  may  have  stunted  the 
spire  a  little  to  get  it  into  his  canvas ;  he  certainly  has  depressed  the 
roof,  unless  the  roof  then  existing  fell  considerably  short  of  the  original 
pitch. 


Notre  Dame  and  the  Saint e  Chapelle.        79 

the  Gothic  edifices  I  have  ever  visited,  this  one  seems  to 
me  most  pre-eminently  a  visible  poem.  It  is  hardly  of 
this  world,  it  hardly  belongs  to  the  dull  realities  of  life. 
Most  buildings  are  successful  only  in  parts,  so  that  we 
say  to  ourselves,  "Ah,  if  all  had  been  equal  to  that!  " 
or  else  we  meet  with  some  shocking  incongruity  that 
spoils  everything ;  but  here  the  motive,  which  is  that  of 
perfect  splendor,  is  maintained  without  flaw  or  failure 
anywhere.  The  architect  made  his  windows  as  large 
and  lofty  as  he  could  (there  is  hardly  any  wall,  its  work 
is  done  by  the  buttresses) ;  and  he  took  care  that  the 
stonework  should  be  as  light  and  elegant  as  possible, 
after  which  he  filled  it  with  a  vast  jewelry  of  painted 
glass.  Every  inch  of  wall  is  illuminated  like  a  missal, 
and  so  delicately  that  some  of  the  illuminations  are 
repeated  of  the  real  size  in  Guilhermy's  monograph. 
When  we  become  somewhat  accustomed  to  the  uni- 
versal splendor  (which  from  the  subdued  light  is  by  no 
means  crude  or  painful),  we  begin  to  perceive  that  the 
windows  are  full  of  little  pictorial  compositions ;  and  if 
we  have  time  to  examine  them,  there  is  occupation  for 
us,  as  the  windows  contain  more  than  a  thousand  of 
these  pictures.  Thanks  to  the  care  of  M.  Guilhermy, 
they  have  been  set  in  order  again.  The  most  interest- 
ing among  them,  for  us,  on  account  of  the  authenticity 
of  the  historical  details,  is  the  window  which  illustrates 
the  translation  of  the  relics.  Here  we  have  the  men  of 
the  time  of  Saint  Louis  on  land  and  sea.  In  the  other 
windows  the  Old  and  New  Testaments  are  illustrated. 
Genesis  takes  ninety-one  compositions,  Exodus  a  hun- 


8o  Paris. 

dred  and  twenty-one,  and  so  on,  each  window  having 
its  own  history.1 

There  are  four  broad  windows  in  each  side,  though 
from  the  exterior  two  of  these  look  slightly  narrower 
because  they  are  somewhat  masked  by  the  west  turrets. 
The  apse  is  lighted  by  five  narrower  windows,  and 
there  are  two,  the  narrowest  of  all,  which  separate  the 
apse  from  the  nave. 

In  the  time  of  Henri  II.  a  very  mistaken  project  was 
carried  into  execution.  A  marble  screen,  with  altars 
set  up  against  it,  was  built  across  the  body  of  the  chapel 
so  as  to  divide  it,  up  to  a  certain  height,  into  two  parts. 
Happily,  this  exists  no  longer. 

The  original  intention  of  Louis  IX.  when  he  built  the 
Sainte  Chapelle  was  that  the  upper  chapel  should  be 
reserved  for  the  sovereign  and  the  royal  house,  while 
the  lower  one  was  for  the  officers  of  inferior  degree. 
The  King's  chapel  was  on  a  level  with  his  apartments 
in  the  palace,  so  that  he  walked  to  it  without  using 
stairs.  The  lower  chapel  has  now  been  completely 
decorated  like  the  upper  one,  on  the  principles  of  illu- 
mination. It  is  beautiful,  but  comparatively  heavy  and 
crypt-like,  and  the  decoration  looks  more  crude,  perhaps 

1  The  only  thing  in  the  Sainte  Chapelle  which  can  be  considered  in 
any  degree  incongruous  with  the  unity  of  the  first  design  is  the  rose- 
window  at  the  west  end,  which  was  erected  by  Charles  VIII.  near  the 
close  of  the  fifteenth  century.  The  flamboyant  tracery  is  of  a  restless 
character,  all  in  very  strong  curves,  and  the  glass  is  quite  different  from 
the  gorgeous  jewel-mosaics  of  the  time  of  Saint  Louis.  The  subjects  are 
all  from  the  Apocalypse.  However,  this  window  inflicts  little  injury  on 
the  general  effect  of  the  chapel,  as  the  visitor  is  under  it  when  he  enters, 
and  it  is  isolated  from  the  rest.  In  service  time  everybody  has  his  back 
to  it. 


SAINT   LOUIS    IN   THE   SAINTE   CHAPKI.LK. 


Notre  Dame  and  the  Sainte  Chapelle.        8 1 

because  the  vault  is  so  much  lower  and  nearer  the  eye. 
A  curious  detail  may  be  mentioned  in  connection  with 
the  religious  services  in  the  Sainte  Chapelle.  They 
were  of  a  sumptuous  description,  as  the  "  treasurer," 
who  was  the  chief  priest,  wore  the  mitre  and  ring,  had 
pontifical  rank,  and  was  subject  only  to  the  Pope.  He 
was  assisted  in  the  services  by  one  chanter,  twelve 
canons,  nineteen  chaplains,  and  thirteen  clerks.  When 
Saint  Louis  dwelt  in  his  royal  house  close  by  and  came 
to  the  Sainte  Chapelle,  the  place  must  have  presented 
such  a  concentration  of  mediaeval  splendor  as  was 
never  seen  elsewhere  in  such  narrow  limits.  His  enthu- 
siasm may  seem  superstitious  to  us,  but  he  endeavored 
earnestly  to  make  himself  a  perfect  king  according  to 
the  lights  of  his  time,  so  that  his  splendid  chapel  is 
associated  with  the  memory  of  a  human  soul  as  sound 
and  honest  as  its  handicrafts,  as  beautiful  as  its  art. 


V. 

THE   TUILERIES   AND   THE   LUXEMBOURG. 

SOME  readers  may  ask  why  the  Tuileries  should  be 
a  subject  for  a  chapter  in  a  work  on  Paris,  when 
the  palace  is  a  thing  of  the  past,  and  the  last  stones  of 
it  have  been  carted  away  from  its  empty  site. 

To  this  objection  there  are  two  replies.  The  first  is, 
that  the  historical  importance  of  the  palace  will  make 
some  mention  of  it  inevitable  in  every  work  on  Paris  for 
ages  yet  to  come ;  because,  if  the  stones  are  no  longer 
there,  the  site  must  ever  remain.  The  second  answer 
is  of  a  more  positive  and  practical  nature,  making  no 
appeal  to  feelings  with  reference  to  past  history,  which 
exist  powerfully  enough  in  some  minds  but  are  entirely 
absent  from  others.  The  Palace  of  the  Tuileries  has 
always  been  held  to  include  the  two  blocks  of  buildings 
at  the  northern  and  southern  extremities,  called  the 
Pavilion  de  Marsan  and  the  Pavilion  de  Flore ;  and  by 
some  authorities  the  lines  of  building  running  eastward 
from  these  pavilions  are  held  to  belong  to  the  Tuileries, 
as  far  as  the  pavilions  de  Rohan  and  Lesdiguieres. 
Now  all  this  exists  at  the  present  day,  after  much  res- 
toration, even  after  much  reconstruction ;  and  is  still 


The  Tuileries  and  the  Luxembourg.         83 

an  architectural  feature  of  Paris  too  important  to  be 
omitted. 

Many  readers  of  these  pages  will  remember  the  Tuile- 
ries as  they  appeared  in  the  time  of  Napoleon  III.  In 
those  days  the  main  body  of  the  palace  was  a  very  thin 
and  very  long  line  of  building,  which  extended  from  the 
Rue  de  Rivoli  on  the  north  to  the  bank  of  the  Seine  on 
the  south ;  and  included  nine  masses,  each  with  its  own 
roof.  In  the  middle  stood  the  Pavilion  de  1'Horloge, 
and  at  the  two  extremities,  as  I  have  just  had  occasion 
to  observe,  the  pavilions  Marsan  and  Flore.  The  re- 
maining six  masses  of  building  were  distributed  sym- 
metrically, three  on  each  side  the  Pavilion  de  1'Horloge, 
but  each  pair  of  them  differed  greatly  from  the  others. 

The  first  impression  produced  by  the  Tuileries  on  a 
foreigner  who  knew  nothing  about  its  architectural  his- 
tory was  that  "  it  was  a  vast  and  venerable  pile  "  :  — 

"Huge  halls,  long  galleries,  spacious  chambers,  joined 

By  no  quite  lawful  marriage  of  the  arts, 
Might  shock  a  connoisseur ;  but  when  combined, 

Formed  a  whole  which,  irregular  in  parts, 
Yet  left  a  grand  impression  on  the  mind." 

I  remember  that  first  "grand  impression"  well,  and 
can  easily  recover  it  even  now.  The  great  length  of  the 
garden  front  gave  a  magnificent  effect  of  perspective, 
ending  admirably  with  the  towering  pavilions,  and  di- 
vided by  the  central  pavilion  and  the  range  of  different 
roofs  which  rose  one  behind  another  like  mountains. 
The  color  was  a  fine  warm  gray,  turned  to  a  golden 
gray  by  the  effulgence  of  sunset,  when  the  long  range 


84  Paris. 

of  windows  glistened  in  the  evening  light.  It  is  said  that 
on  a  certain  day  in  the  year  when  the  sun  was  to  be  seen 
exactly  within  the  great,  far-away  arch  of  triumph,  the 
last  of  the  French  kings  would  come  out  on  the  balcony 
of  the  great  central  pavilion  and  watch  the  rare  and 
magnificent  spectacle.  It  is  not  very  long  since  then, 
in  mere  numbering  of  years ;  and  there  are  people  still 
living  who  have  seen  the  King  on  the  royal  balcony,  yet 
it  belongs  even  now  as  much  to  the  past  as  the  princely 
life  at  Nineveh.  The  last  King  lies,  nearly  forgotten,  in 
the  mausoleum  on  the  top  of  the  hill  at  Dreux,  wisely 
chosen  far  from  the  capital,  that  the  House  of  Orleans 
might  rest  in  final  peace;  and  where  the  long,  pictu- 
resque old  palace  stood  is  a  great  gap  of  empty  air. 

The  destruction  of  the  Tuileries  by  the  Communards 
was  a  lamentable  event  from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
historian  and  the  archaeologist,  but  artistically  the  loss 
is  not  great.  If  the  Empire  had  lasted,  the  palace 
would  have  been  destroyed  by  architects,  as  the  total  re- 
construction of  it  had  been  decided  upon  long  before. 
In  spite  of  the  immense  sums  which  at  different  times 
had  been  spent  in  making  it  habitable,  it  still  remained 
one  of  the  most  inconvenient  houses  in  the  world.  The 
extreme  (relative)  narrowness  of  it  made  communication 
troublesome  and  long,  while  there  was  a  great  want  of 
proper  corridors ;  and,  in  short,  the  structure  was  only 
the  result  of  adding  and  mending,  not  the  realization  of 
a  logical  and  orderly  plan.  I  cannot  say  whether  the 
projects  for  the  new  palace  had  ever  been  elaborated 
in  the  shape  of  finished  drawings ;  if  they  were,  it  was 


The  Tuileries  and  the  Luxembourg.          85 

thought  judicious  not  to  show  them  to  the  public ;  but 
long  before  the  fall  of  the  Empire.  I  was  told,  by  one 
who  knew  the  imperial  intentions,  that  the  old  palace  of 
the  Tuileries  was  condemned.  The  first  step  was  taken 
by  pulling  down  the  Pavilion  de  Flore,  and  when  the 
new  one  was  erected  in  its  place,  a  short  piece  of  new 
work,  equally  magnificent,  was  carried  northward  and 
stopped  abruptly,  to  accustom  the  public  to  the  idea  of 
its  ultimate  continuation.  At  the  same  time  it  does  not 
appear  that  Louis  Napoleon  contemplated  the  imme- 
diate rebuilding  of  the  Tuileries,  as  he  arranged  a  very 
beautiful  and  costly  suite  of  private  apartments  for  the 
Empress  within  the  shell  of  the  old  palace. 

Hardly  any  old  country-house  in  England  has  been 
built  in  such  a  haphazard  fashion.  The  first  architect 
no  more  thought  of  uniting  the  Tuileries  to  the  Louvre 
than  the  builder  of  Buckingham  Palace  thought  of  join- 
ing it  to  the  Horse  Guards ;  and  yet  this  notion  ulti- 
mately governed  everything,  entirely  depriving  the 
Tuileries  of  completeness  and  independence,  and  mak- 
ing it  only  part  of  a  colossal  whole,  which,  from  the 
artistic  point  of  view,  was  simply  a  colossal  error. 

The  history  of  it  begins  in  the  year  1564,  when 
Catherine  de  Medicis  conceived  the  idea  of  having  a 
palace  to  herself  near  the  Louvre,  yet  independent,  in 
which  she  might  be  near  enough  to  her  son  Charles  IX. 
to  have  influence  over  him.  She  wanted  it  to  be  a 
country-house,  or  what  we  should  call  suburban,  just 
well  without  the  walls  of  Paris.  Here  the  reader  must 
be  reminded  that  in  1564  the  wall  of  Paris  was  no 


86  Paris. 

longer  that  of  Philippe-Auguste,  which  went  through 
the  present  square  of  the  Louvre,  but  that  of  Charles  V., 
which  went  through  what  is  now  the  Place  du  Carrousel, 
just  to  the  east  of  the  Salle  des  fitats,  or  a  little  to  the 
west  of  the  pavilions  de  Rohan  and  Lesdiguieres.  It 
was  a  fine  strong  wall,  with  square  towers,  and  a  round 
tower  at  the  corner  near  the  Seine,  called  the  Tour  du 
Boisy  which  remained  long  afterwards,  and  is  a  familiar 
object  in  old  prints. 

There  is  this  very  curious  coincidence  in  the  first 
construction  of  the  palaces  of  the  Louvre  and  the 
Tuileries.  Each  of  them,  in  the  beginning,  was  intended 
to  be  just  outside  the  wall  of  Paris,  the  Louvre  being 
west  of  the  wall  of  Philippe-Auguste,  the  Tuileries  west 
of  Charles  V.'s  wall.  The  difference  in  the  style  of 
architecture  adopted  marks  the  difference  between  the 
temper  of  Gothic  and  Renaissance  times.  Philippe- 
Auguste  built  the  Louvre  as  a  strong  Gothic  fortress ; 
Catherine  de  Medicis,  with  ideas  imported  from  Florence, 
wanted  a  Renaissance  palace  of  graceful  architecture 
where  she  might  dwell  in  elegance  and  comfort.  She 
got  her  elegant  dwelling,  but  had  not  much  comfort 
there,  as  it  happened. 

And  now,  from  an  artistic  point  of  view,  comes  the 
saddest  part  of  the  whole  story.  Catherine  had  a  man 
of  taste  and  even  genius  at  her  orders,  the  great  archi- 
tect Philibert  Delorme,  and  he  had  a  plan  for  a  palace 
of  moderate  dimensions  but  of  perfectly  rational  con- 
ception, —  such  a  palace  as  would  have  been  a  really 
complete  work  of  art,  and  a  great  ornament  to  Paris  in 


The  Tuileries  and  the  Luxembourg.         87 

our  own  day,  had  it  been  preserved  so  long.  Catherine 
appreciated  and  employed  him ;  but  she  was  short  of 
funds,  and  he  unluckily  only  lived  a  few  years,  so  that 
his  complete  plan  could  not  be  carried  out  in  his  life- 
time, which  would  have  settled  everything. 

As  the  name  of  Philibert  Delorme  is  so  closely  con- 
nected with  the  origin  of  the  palace,  there  is  a  common 
popular  belief  that  at  least  the  central  pavilion  and  the 
wings  nearest  it  were  built  by  him,  as  we  knew  them,  and 
such  is  the  power  of  fame  that  they  were  often  admired 
on  the  strength  of  his  reputation.  If  his  shade  could 
have  revisited  the  garden,  and  seen  the  front  in  the  time 
of  Louis  Napoleon,  he  would  probably  have  found  more 
pain  than  pleasure  in  the  knowledge  that  his  name  was 
connected  with  it  at  all.  The  whole  of  his  work,  even 
including  the  central  pavilion,  was  altered  by  subse- 
quent architects  till  the  beauty  and  grace  of  it  were 
effectually  taken  away.  Delorme's  building  consisted 
simply  of  a  ground-floor  and  an  upper  story  which  was 
lighted  Jay  beautiful  dormer  windows,  with  rich  stone 
panels  inserted  between  them.  Above  these  rose  a 
well-pitched  roof,  and  care,  of  course,  was  bestowed 
upon  the  chimneys.  But  the  most  important  feature 
in  Delorme's  design  was  the  pavilion  (he  only  lived  to 
erect  one,  in  the  centre  of  his  front).  The  basis  of  this 
pavilion  was  a  strong  square  mass  two  stories  high, 
with  a  central  doorway  between  two  pairs  of  columns, 
and  a  window  above  it,  also  between  two  pairs  of  col- 
umns. The  whole  square  mass  was  surrounded  by  a 
balustrade  at  the  top,  and  there  was  a  large  round  dome 


88  Paris. 

standing  upon  an  elegant  arcade  and  accompanied  by 
four  small  domes,  occupying  the  angles  of  the  square 
mass  beneath.  These  satellites  were  supported  on 
arches  like  the  great  dome,  and  on  the  top  of  the  great 
dome  was  a  lantern,  also  on  little  arches.  The  windows 
in  the  front  were  set  in  pairs  near  the  pavilion  and  at 
the  extremities,  but  between  these  pairs  were  three  sin- 
gle windows ; 1  the  composition,  as  a  whole,  was  extremely 
elegant,  and,  though  quite  palatial  and  fit  for  a  queen, 
it  was  neither  cumbersome  nor  pretentious.  If  the 
architect  had  lived,  and  if  the  queen  had  been  richer, 
they  would  have  completed  a  quadrangle  measuring 
about  270  metres  by  168  in  that  manner,  but  with  cor- 
ner pavilions,  one  of  which  was  erected  by  Jean  Bullant 
on  the  south  side  after  Delorme's  death,  which  occurred 
in  1570,  after  he  had  worked  eight  years  for  Catherine 
de  Medicis. 

As  the  quadrangle  was  never  completed,  only  one 
side  of  it  having  been  built,  the  palace  was  found  to 
be  too  small  in  later  reigns,  and  so  it  was  increased  in 
length  and  in  height,  as  I  shall  have  to  explain  shortly, 
and  Delorme's  work  was  spoiled  by  heavy  superposition. 
He  had  chosen  the  Ionic  order  as  more  feminine  than 
the  Doric,  because  the  palace  was  for  a  lady.  He  him- 
self gives  this  reason,  the  Ionic  having  been  employed 
for  the  Temples  of  Goddesses.  At  the  same  time  he 
gave  the  palace  an  air  of  elegance  of  which  it  was  after- 
wards deprived. 

It    is    remarkable   that    Catherine   hardly   used    the 

1  This  description  is  from  what  is  now  the  Place  du  Carrousel. 


The  Tuileries  and  the  Luxembourg.         89 

Tuileries.  It  appears  to  be  certain  that  she  only  went 
there  as  people  go  to  a  summer-house,  for  a  few  hours 
at  a  time,  or,  at  most,  for  a  very  short  stay,  and  that  the 
palace  was  not  even  furnished,  as  the  officers  of  her 
household  sent  on  each  occasion  the  furniture  that  she 
required,  and  had  it  removed  when  she  was  gone.  The 
architectural  works  were  completely  abandoned  by 
Catherine  in  1572;  either  she  was  tired  of  her  hobby, 
or  there  may  be  some  truth  in  the  commonly  repeated 
tradition  that  she  was  frightened  away  from  the  Tuile- 
ries by  the  prediction  of  a  fortune-teller.1 

Some  readers  will  remember  the  large  space  behind 
the  Tuileries,  between  the  palace  and  the  railings  across 
the  Place  du  Carrousel.  In  recent  times  the  space  was 
nothing  but  an  arid  desert  of  sand,  very  useful  for 
reviewing  troops,  but  as  monotonous  as  a  barrack-yard. 
In  the  early  days  of  the  palace  this  was  occupied  by  a 
beautiful  garden,  and  even  before  the  building  of  the 
palace  was  begun  a  fine  garden,  in  the  formal  taste  of 
the  time,  had  been  made  to  the  west,  on  the  ground 
occupied  by  the  present  garden  of  the  Tuileries.  There 
were  six  great  straight  walks  going  from  end  to  end, 
and  these  were  crossed  by  eight  narrower  walks  at 
right  angles;  the  beds  were  consequently  all  rectan- 
gular, and  even  within  the  beds  the  same  rectangular 

1  The  story  is  in  the  guide-books,  so  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  repeat 
it ;  but  to  save  the  reader  the  trouble  of  a  reference  I  may  say  that  the 
fortune-teller  tried  to  be  agreeable  to  her  Majesty  by  predicting  for  her 
a  quiet  end  "  near  St.  Germain,"  as  the  Tuileries  was  in  that  parish. 
Catherine  avoided  the  palace  afterwards  to  prolong  her  chances  of  life, 
yet  died  near  St.  Germain  after  all,  as  the  priest  who  attended  her  bore 
that  name. 


90  Paris. 

system  was  carried  out  in  the  subdivisions.  At  a  later 
period,  while  the  stone  borders  of  the  beds  were  pre- 
served, there  was  a  violent  reaction  against  angles  inside 
them,  and  the  most  intemperately  curved  flourishes 
were  substituted.  I  have  no  doubt  that  this  intem- 
perance in  curvature  was  the  direct  consequence  of  the 
straight-line  system  which  had  created  a  great  hunger 
for  curves.  In  Catherine's  original  garden  there  was 
not  a  single  curve  of  any  kind  except  the  semicircle  of 
the  echo.  With  regard  to  the  general  principle  of  the 
formal  French  garden,  it  may  be  defended  as  a  suit- 
able accompaniment  to  symmetrical  architecture.  Such 
gardens,  when  of  great  size,  are  wearisome  in  the  ex- 
treme ;  but  a  small  one  is  valuable  close  to  a  building, 
as  a  sort  of  extension  of  the  building  itself  upon  the 
ground. 

The  new  palace  of  the  Tuileries  had  been  so  much 
neglected  that  when  Henri  IV.  came  to  it  he  found  it 
already  nearly  ruinous.  He  was  one  of  the  great 
building  sovereigns  ;  the  constructive  instinct  was  strong 
in  him  from  the  beginning,  so  of  course  the  unfinished 
condition  of  the  Tuileries  excited  him  to  architectural 
effort.  Unfortunately  for  the  future  artistic  consistency 
of  these  great  palatial  buildings,  he  conceived  the  idea 
of  uniting  the  Tuileries  to  the  Louvre  by  a  long  gallery 
on  the  river-side,  which  of  course  involved  from  the 
first  the  necessity  of  a  corresponding  line  of  building 
on  the  north,  along  what  is  now  the  Rue  de  Rivoli. 
The  enterprise  was  so  prodigious  that  nine  sovereigns 
reigned  over  France  before  it  was  completed;  and  no 


The  Tuileries  and  the  Luxembourg.         91 

sooner  had  it  been  finished  by  Louis  Napoleon  than 
the  incongruousness  of  old  and  new  made  him  decide 
to  build  the  Tuileries  over  again.  If  Henri  IV.  had 
simply  confined  himself  to  carrying  out  the  first  inten- 
tions of  Philibert  Delorme  by  building  the  whole  of 
that  architect's  projected  quadrangle,  the  result  would 
have  been  charming.  What  he  actually  did  spoiled 
the  Tuileries  completely;  he  built  the  Pavilion  de 
Flore,  which,  by  its  great  mass,  made  Delorme's  dome 
too  small  for  its  central  position,  and  the  heavy  archi- 
tecture of  the  long  gallery,  with  its  big  pilasters  from 
top  to  bottom,  set  an  evil  example  for  future  work  on 
the  Tuileries.  It  is  believed  that  Henri  IV.  built  the. 
long  gallery  for  reasons  of  prudence,  and  that  he  de- 
sired to  plan  for  himself  a  way  of  retreat  in  case  of  a 
popular  attack  on  his  palace  of  the  Louvre.  The  reader 
is  asked  to  remember  that  the  Tuileries  was  still  out 
of  Paris,  and  that  the  wall  existed  still  except  where 
it  was  pierced  by  the  new  gallery.  Henri  had  a  pri- 
vate garden  between  the  Tuileries  and  the  city  wall,  and 
special  precautions  were  taken  to  secure  the  complete- 
ness of  its  privacy. 

It  is  an  interesting  fact  that  from  the  beginning  the 
great  gallery  was  used  for  works  of  art,  while  it  served 
as  a  means  of  communication ;  and  it  is  also  a  remark- 
able proof  of  the  interest  taken  by  Henri  IV.  in  the  arts, 
that  he  lent  the  extensive  series  of  rooms  on  the  ground- 
floor  to  workers  in  painting,  engraving,  tapestry,  and 
sculpture.  These  rooms  appear  indeed  to  have  been 
employed  as  schools  of  art ;  and  French  writers  believe 


92  Paris. 

them  to  have  constituted  at  that  time  a  sort  of  conserva- 
toire des  arts  et  metiers,  —  a  free  school  of  fine  and  indus- 
trial art. 

When  Henri  IV.  had  done  his  work  the  edifice  must 
have  presented  a  strikingly  awkward  and  unfinished 
appearance.  Fastened  on  one  corner  of  the  quadran- 
gular Louvre  was  a  mass  of  building  going  down  to 
the  quay,  and  from  this  the  long  gallery  went  to  the 
Pavilion  de  Flore;  the  length  of  it  not  having  been 
determined  by  any  architectural  consideration  whatever, 
but  simply  by  the  distance  which  happened  to  exist 
between  two  different  palaces.  At  the  west  end  the 
appearance  must  have  been  most  unsatisfactory.  There 
was  the  big  Pavilion  de  Flore,  and  a  mass  of  building 
to  connect  it  with  the  poor  little  palace  of  the  Tuileries ; 
and  on  the  other  side  there  was  nothing.  Between  the 
Tuileries  and  the  Louvre  lay  a  confusion  of  garden, 
ditch,  wall,  and  various  habitations. 

Henri  IV.  was  able  to  walk  under  cover  from  one 
palace  to  the  other  in  the  last  year  of  his  life,  but  the 
device  for  escaping  from  the  city  did  not  save  him 
from  assassination.  After  him  Louis  XIII.  went  on 
with  the  work;  but  the  great  builder  was  Louis  XIV., 
who  was  displeased  with  the  one-sided  appearance  of 
the  palace,  and  also  with  the  extreme  irregularity  of  the 
roofs.  By  that  time  the  ditches  and  wall  of  Charles  V. 
had  been  removed,  and  the  east  garden  (called  the 
Jardin  de  Mademoiselle}  had  been  made  into  a  desert ; 
so  on  the  5th  of  June,  1662,  the  King  held  a  great 
equestrian  festival  in  the  space  between  the  Tuileries 


The  Tuileries  and  the  Luxembourg.         93 

and  the  Louvre  (but  nearer  to  the  Tuileries),  from 
which  that  piece  of  ground  has  been  called  ever  since 
then  the  Place  du  Carrousel.  The  festival  was  a  mixture 
of  costume  cavalcades  and  games;  the  King  himself 
took  an  active  part  in  it,  and  so  did  the  flower  of 
French  nobility.  The  minute  accounts  left  by  eye- 
witnesses make  it  certain  that  the  scene  was  one  of 
extraordinary  splendor;  but  the  architectural  back- 
ground was  so  incomplete,  that  perhaps  the  King's 
resolution  to  take  up  the  work  may  date  from  that 
very  day.  Nothing  could  be  done  to  save  the  Tuile- 
ries of  Philibert  Delorme.  A  great  northern  pavil- 
ion, the  Pavilion  de  Marsan,  was  erected  to  make  a 
northern  angle  answering  to  the  southern  Pavilion  de 
Flore ;  and  it  was  joined  to  the  other  buildings,  but 
these  were  so  disproportioned  that  it  was  thought 
necessary  to  raise  some  of  them  by  adding  another 
story  (or  more),  and  to  bring  the  front  more  nearly 
to  a  level  by  building  across  its  cavities.  The  central 
pavilion  was  raised  a  story,  and  a  heavy  dome  with 
angular  corners  was  substituted  for  the  elegant  round 
dome  of  the  first  architect.  This  was  the  Pavilion  de 
1'Horloge,  that  we  remember. 

I  have  said  that  the  Tuileries  consisted  of  nine 
masses  of  building.  It  may  be  convenient  to  remem- 
ber that  the  architect,  Philibert  Delorme,  only  com- 
pleted three  of  these,  —  the  central  pavilion  and  two 
wings ;  Jean  Bullant  added  a  pavilion  to  the  south. 
The  architects  of  Henri  IV.  added  two  masses  still 
farther  to  the  south;  those  of  Louis  XIV.  added 


94  Paris. 

three  to  the  north,  so  that  in  his  time  the  nine  ulti- 
mately attained  were  already  complete.  It  is  difficult 
to  see  how  his  architects,  Le  Vau  and  d'Orbay,  could 
have  dealt  effectively  in  any  other  way  with  the  difficult 
problem  before  them,  unless  they  had  completely  de- 
molished the  old  palace.  The  real  blunder  was  not 
committed  by  them,  but  by  Henri  IV.  and  his  archi- 
tects, Metezeau  and  Du  Cerceau,  when  they  made 
the  work  of  Louis  XIV.  an  inevitable  necessity  of  the 
future. 

We  have  clear  evidence  that  in  the  time  of  Louis  XIV. 
it  was  already  intended  to  build  the  long  northern 
side  of  the  great  square.  An  engraving  by  Israel 
Sylvestre,  representing  the  famous  equestrian  festival,, 
anticipates  the  future  by  showing  the  Pavilion  de  Marsan 
as  already  erected;  and  not  only  that,  but  he  even 
shows  the  beginning  of  what  was  afterwards  done  by- 
Napoleon  I.  to  unite  the  Tuileries  to  the  Louvre. 

The  Great  Napoleon  was  not  quite  so  passionately 
fond  of  building  as  Napoleon  III.,  but  he  liked  to  leave 
his  mark  on  Paris,  and  his  military  love  of  order  and 
completeness  was  vexed  by  the  confusion  behind  the 
Tuileries.  Where  the  eastern  garden  once  had  been 
there  were  three  spaces  divided  by  hoardings,  and  also 
separated  by  hoardings  from  the  rest  of  the  Place 
du  Carrousel,  while  there  were  a  number  of  wooden 
booths  within  them,  and  a  number  of  very  ordinary 
houses  just  behind.  It  is  surprising  that  preceding 
sovereigns  should  have  tolerated  such  a  state  of  things 
just  behind  their  palace;  and  it  is  a  remarkably  apt 


The  Tuileries  and  the  Luxembourg.         95 

illustration  of  the  wise  old  French  proverb,  "  Qui  trop 
embrasse,  mal ttreint"  The  space  included  in  the  great 
scheme  was  so  vast  that  it  was  never  properly  dealt 
with  until  our  own  time.  Napoleon  I.  had  two  objects  in 
view  when  he  began  his  improvements  :  he  first  wished 
to  keep  people  at  some  distance  from  the  Palace  for 
reasons  of  privacy  and  safety,  and  then  he  wanted 
a  convenient  place  for  small  reviews  of  troops.  He 
therefore  cleared  away  all  the  hoardings  and  booths, 
and  made  an  open  gravelled  space,  which  he  sepa- 
rated from  the  Place  du  Carrousel  with  a  railing. 
He  also  made  it  his  business  to  clear  away  the 
houses  and  to  build  the  north  side  according  to 
the  intentions  of  Louis  XIV.,  in  a  plain,  rather  heavy 
style,  with  tall  pilasters,  suggested  by  the  long  gallery 
of  the  Louvre. 

The  work  done  by  Louis-Philippe  was  considerable, 
but  principally  in  the  interior.  The  details  of  these 
changes  would  not  greatly  interest  the  reader,  and 
would  scarcely  be  intelligible  without  a  plan.  They 
included  a  new  grand  staircase,  a  new  great  saloon,  and 
the  improvement  of  the  Galerie  de  Diane,  with  other 
alterations,  which  placed  the  floors  of  a  long  series 
of  state  apartments  on  the  same  level.  These  rooms 
in  the  aggregate  were  eight  hundred  feet  long,  and 
the  bill  for  these  improvements  reached  the  handsome 
sum  of  £211,656. 

Then  came  Louis  Napoleon,  who  determined  to 
complete  the  whole  vast  edifice  of  the  united  palaces. 
He  had  the  builder's  passion  quite  as  strongly  as  either 


96  Paris. 

Henri  IV.  or  Louis  XIV. ;  and  during  those  years  when 
nobody  could  resist  his  will,  he  indulged  it  to  the  utter- 
most. The  greater  part  of  his  work  belongs  to  the 
Louvre,  as  it  lies  east  of  the  pavilions  de  Rohan  and 
Lesdiguieres,  but  he  did  much  to  the  Tuileries  of  Henri 
IV.  He  pulled  down  the  Pavilion  de  Flore,  and  rebuilt 
it,  and  he  did  the  same  for  all  that  part  of  the  long 
gallery  that  used  to  have  long  pilasters.  In  the  execu- 
tion of  this  important  work  every  opportunity  for  im- 
provement that  was  consistent  with  a  respect  for  the 
original  idea  was  seized  upon  with  avidity.  The  long 
pilasters  were  abandoned,  and  the  new  work  treated 
in  stories,  like  part  of  the  older  Louvre,  with  much 
elegance  of  design  and  richness  of  sculptured  detail. 
The  Pavilion  de  Flore  was  in  some  respects  more 
ornate  than  its  predecessor,  especially  in  the  upper 
parts ;  and  on  the  whole  it  was  a  more  lively  com- 
position, with  better  contrasts  of  effective  sculpture 
and  plain  wall  surface.  An  unquestionable  improve- 
ment was  in  the  roofs,  which  were  made  rich  enough 
in  lead-work  to  accompany  the  sculptured  ornaments 
of  the  walls.  The  tiresome  length  of  monotonous 
gallery  running  eastward  from  the  Pavilion  de  Flore 
was  happily  and  intentionally  broken  by  the  large 
gateway  called  the  Guichets  des  Saints  Ptres,  by  the 
twin  pavilions  of  that  gateway,  and  the  masses  of 
building  on  each  side  of  them,  which  are  loftier  than 
the  roof  of  the  gallery.  Besides  this,  the  space  com- 
prised between  the  Pavilion  de  Flore  and  the  Guichets 
is  itself  wisely  interrupted  by  a  minor  pavilion  rising 


The  Tuileries  and  the  Luxembourg.         97 

above  the  cornice,  though  not  above  the  roof.  By 
these  devices  the  great  fault  of  the  river  front,  inor- 
dinate length,  is  made  less  visible.  As  for  perfection 
of  detail,  there  has  never  been  any  epoch  of  French 
architecture  in  which  the  essentially  national  style  was 
worked  out  with  more  thorough  knowledge  and  skill 
than  under  Napoleon  III. 

It  is  a  constant  pleasure  to  examine  such  good  work- 
manship closely,  to  see  what  a  remarkably  high  level 
the  decorative  sculptors  have  attained  when  none  of 
them  disgrace  the  rest.  Much  as  we  admire  Gothic 
architecture,  we  have  to  acknowledge  that  the  modern 
work  on  the  Tuileries  is  what  Gothic  sculptors  could 
never  have  accomplished.  The  renewal  of  the  art  by 
the  study  of  Greek  antiquity  was  a  necessary  prepara- 
tion for  palatial  work  of  this  kind. 

It  is  a  pity  (from  our  present  point  of  view)  that 
Louis  Napoleon  did  not  remain  in  power  long  enough 
to  rebuild  the  Tuileries  with  the  help  of  M.  Lefuel,  who 
erected  the  new  Pavilion  de  Flore.  The  new  palace 
would,  no  doubt,  have  been  lofty  and  massive  enough  to 
hold  its  own  against  the  new  buildings  of  the  Louvre ; 
and  the  central  pavilion,  especially,  would  have  been  a 
stately  and  imposing  work  of  great  size  and  magnificent 
decoration.  The  intended  imperial  palace  is,  however, 
gone  to  the  shadowy  realm  of  the  things  that  might 
have  been.  In  the  place  it  was  to  have  occupied  we 
have  seen  for  some  years  a  blackened  ruin ;  certainly 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  interesting  ruins  that 
ever  were,  and  so  impressive  by  its  combination  of  dire 

7 


98  Paris. 

disaster  with  still  visible  traces  of  royal  splendor  that 
only  a  poet  could  describe  it  adequately.  Meissonier 
has  worked  in  it  carefully,  and  his  minutely  faithful 
brush  will  preserve  for  posterity  those  fire-crumbled 
columns,  those  shattered  walls  on  which  were  still  to 
be  seen  strangely  preserved  spaces  of  gold  and  color, 
as  in  some  ruin  at  Pompeii.  Even  the  king's  balcony 
was  still  there,  and  the  sunset  light,  indifferent  to 
human  vicissitudes,  refreshed  its  gilding  in  the  summer 
evenings. 

What  the  Republic  has  done  since  its  establishment 
may  be  told  in  a  few  words.  The  fire  had  destroyed 
the  Pavilion  de  Marsan  and  much  of  the  line  of  build- 
ing along  the  Rue  de  Rivoli.  These  have  since  been 
rebuilt,  as  magnificently  as  the  new  Pavilion  de  Flore 
and  the  new  part  of  the  great  gallery  on  the  water-side. 
There  appears  to  be  an  intention  of  continuing  the  work 
in  the  same  style  as  far  as  the  Pavilion  de  Rohan,  or 
perhaps  of  erecting  some  great  hall  to  break  the  line, 
for  the  new  work  stops  abruptly ;  and  as  the  new  build- 
ing is  much  broader  than  the  old,  the  walls  can  never 
meet.  The  architects  of  the  new  portion  have  avoided 
the  heavy  long  pilasters  of  Napoleon  I.,  and  adopted 
the  more  elegant  system  of  division  in  stories  already 
so  successfully  carried  out  on  the  south.  No  decision 
has  been  arrived  at  yet  (1885)  with  regard  to  the  space 
occupied  by  the  destroyed  buildings  of  the  Tuileries. 
All  that  is  certain  is  that  nothing  will  be  joined  to  the 
pavilions  of  Marsan  and  Flore,  as  these  pavilions  are  fin- 
ished on  three  sides.  The  open  space  seems  to  call  for  a 


The  Tuileries  and  the  Luxembourg.         99 

noble  edifice  of  some  kind,  and  it  is  probable  that  some 
public  building  will  ultimately  be  erected  there.  If  this 
is  ever  done,  it  will  be  highly  desirable  that  it  should  be 
set  further  back  towards  the  Louvre,  so  as  to  give  to  the 
two  great  pavilions  the  effect  of  advancing  wings.  This 
would  do  more  than  anything  to  relieve  the  great  length 
and  monotony  of  the  garden  front. 

Through  all  their  errors  and  experiments  the  archi- 
tects of  the  Tuileries  and  Louvre  have  been  developing 
a  style  of  architecture  which,  in  its  ultimate  stage,  is 
really  imposing  and  palatial.  The  great  pavilions  are 
very  nearly  related  to  towers,  and  their  steep  square 
roofs  are  like  truncated  spires ;  but  the  idea  is  so  com- 
pletely adapted  to  the  needs  of  a  palace  that  we  forget 
its  origin  in  mediaeval  churches  and  fortresses.  Such 
pavilions  are  useful  and  necessary  in  edifices  where  the 
lines  of  building  are  long.  They  serve  as  landmarks, 
and  by  their  perspective  they  enable  us  to  measure 
easily  the  scale  of  the  whole  edifice.  The  full  maturity 
of  this  architecture  has  only  been  reached  in  the  present 
generation.  The  new  parts  of  the  Tuileries  are  finer 
than  the  older  work  which  they  replace,  —  finer,  not 
only  as  being  more  magnificent,  but  because,  after  so 
many  experiments,  the  resources  of  that  kind  of  art 
have  come  to  be  better  understood.  A  contemporary 
French  architect  eminent  enough  to  be  employed  on  a 
national  palace  would  naturally  produce  more  elegant 
work  than  the  old  river-front  of  the  long  gallery  or  the 
alterations  made  under  Louis  XIV.  The  principles  of 
this  architecture  having  been  settled,  it  has  reached  that 


ioo  Paris. 

mature  stage  when  nothing  remains  to  be  done  but  to 
perfect  the  application  of  them  in  detail. 

I  have  not  had  space  to  speak  of  the  historical  inter- 
est of  the  Tuileries,  and  can  only  do  so  now  on  the  con- 
dition of  extreme  brevity.  The  palace  was  never  very 
long  or  very  closely  connected  with  the  history  of  the 
monarchy.  It  is  not  at  all  comparable  to  Windsor  in 
that  respect.  Henri  IV.  liked  it,  Louis  XIV.  preferred 
Versailles,  Louis  XV.  lived  at  the  Tuileries  in  his  mi- 
nority. The  chosen  association  of  the  palace  with  the 
sovereigns  of  France  is  very  recent.  Louis  XVI.  lived 
in  it,  and  so  did  Charles  X.  and  Louis-Philippe.  The 
two  Napoleons  were  fond  of  it,  perhaps  because  it  gave 
them  a  better  appearance  of  sovereignty  than  a  new 
residence  could  have  done.  The  last  inhabitant  was 
the  Empress  Eugenie,  as  Regent,  and  her  flight  has  a 
pathos  surpassing  the  flights  or  last  departures  of  other 
sovereigns,  since  we  know  that  the  palace  was  never 
again  to  be  brightened  by  either  royal  or  imperial 
splendor. 

The  parliamentary  history  of  the  Tuileries  is  impor- 
tant, as  it  has  been  not  only  a  palace,  but  a  parliament 
house.  In  old  times  the  royal  stable  was  to  the  north, 
close  to  what  is  now  the  Pavilion  de  Marsan,  and  in  the 
present  Rue  de  Rivoli.  The  exercising-ground  was  in 
a  long,  narrow  enclosure,  which  occupied  the  ground 
of  that  street  as  far  as  the  Rue  de  Castiglione ;  and  at 
its  western  extremity  there  was  a  building  called  the 
manege,  which  served  as  a  parliament  house  for  the 
Assemblee  Nationale,  while  Louis  XVI.  lived  in  his 


The  Tuileries  and  the  Luxembourg.       101 

apartments  in  the  palace  and  rarely  came  out  of  them. 
In  May,  1793,  the  Convention  began  to  sit  in  a  newly 
arranged  parliament  house  within  the  walls  of  the 
palace  itself,  and  for  some  time  after  that  the  palace 
included  Government  Offices  of  all  kinds,  so  that  the 
first  rough-and-rude  beginnings  of  popular  government 
in  France  were  carried  on  in  the  royal  house  itself. 
The  reader  may  be  reminded  also  that  Napole6n's  coup 
cTttat  of  the  i8th  Brumaire  took  place  within  the  Tuile- 
ries, where  Parliament  was  then  sitting.  The  most  im- 
portant events  in  the  Tuileries  have  sometimes  been 
simply  the  arrival  of  a  courier  with  news,  or  its  mere 
reception  by  the  quiet-looking  telegraphic  wire.  I  was 
in  Paris  when  that  little  wire  brought  to  the  Emperor's 
private  cabinet  in  the  Pavilion  de  Flore  the  terrible 
news  about  Maximilian.  I  stood  with  a  friend  and 
looked  on  the  sunny  outside  of  the  great  palace,  and 
we  said,  "  It  is  a  dark  day  for  Napoleon  III."  From 
that  day  everything  went  wrong  with  him  till  he  was 
laid  in  the  sarcophagus  at  Chiselhurst. 

The  Tuileries  and  the  Luxembourg  have  this  in  com- 
mon, that  each  was  built  by  a  queen,  and  that  each  of 
the  queens  was  a  Medicis.  Marie  de  Medicis  began 
her  palace  in  1615.  Unlike  the  elder  edifice,  it  has  pre- 
served at  least  its  original  character,  but  in  order  to 
obtain  more  room  in  the  interior  the  garden  front  has 
been  replaced  by  a  new  one  farther  out ;  and  though  the 
original  style  of  the  building  has  been  carefully  imitated 
its  proportions  have  been  inevitably  destroyed.  Un- 
luckily, too,  the  addition  (begun  in  1836  and  finished  in 


1O2  Paris. 

1844)  was  of  a  nature  to  increase  the  only  serious  defect 
of  the  first  design,  which  was  the  doubling  of  the  south- 
ern pavilions.  The  first  plan  may  be  briefly  described 
as  follows:  there  was  a  quadrangle  with  one  pavilion 
at  each  corner  towards  the  street,  but  two  pavilions  at 
each  corner  (or  very  near  it)  towards  the  garden.  The 
garden  pavilions  were  so  near  each  other  as  to  lose  the 
advantage  of  perspective  and  appear  heavy.  The  en- 
largement carried  out  by  M.  de  Gisors,  Louis-Philippe's 
architect,  consisted  in  constructing  two  new  pavilions  in 
the  garden  close  to  the  four  already  existing,  so  that  at 
the  south  end  of  the  palace  there  are  now  six  heavy 
pavilions,  three  on  each  side.  The  new  ones  were  con- 
nected by  a  new  front  which  gave  great  additional  space 
inside  for  a  library  and  senate-house;  but  the  result 
externally  was  to  make  the  heavy  end  of  the  palace 
look  heavier  still.  Nevertheless,  as  the  building  had  to 
be  enlarged  to  receive  the  senate,  it  is  very  difficult  to 
see  how  any  equivalent  increase  of  size  could  have 
been  conveniently  obtained  with  so  little  deviation  from 
the  first  design.  The  garden  front  is  practically  the 
same,  the  interior  of  the  quadrangle  is  untouched,  at 
least  so  far  as  this  alteration  is  concerned,  so  is  the 
street  front,  and  it  is  only  the  east  and  west  sides  which 
are  lengthened  without  any  alteration  in  their  style. 

The  architecture  of  this  palace  is  not  at  all  compar- 
able, so  far  as  the  one  quality  of  elegance  is  concerned, 
with  the  most  beautiful  parts  of  the  Louvre  and  the 
Tuileries,  but  it  is  serious  and  dignified,  and  almost  in 
faultless  taste  in  its  own  grave  way.  It  would  be  difficult 


The  Tuileries  and  the  Luxembourg.        103 

to  find  a  more  appropriate  building  for  a  senate-house. 
The  situation  is  pleasant  and  easily  accessible,  while 
the  great  space  of  beautiful  garden  gives  the  palace  a 
degree  of  quiet  not  always  attainable  in  a  great  city, 
and  which,  we  may  suppose,  ought  to  be  favorable  to 
legislative  deliberations.  It  is  thought  more  prudent, 
in  France,  not  to  have  the  two  Chambers  in  one  build- 
ing ;  and  it  was  principally  for  this  reason  that  a  recent 
proposition  to  rebuild  the  Tuileries,  as  a  great  parlia- 
ment house  for  both  Chambers,  met  with  few  if  any 
adherents. 

The  garden  of  the  Luxembourg  is  a  precious  breath- 
ing-space for  that  part  of  Paris,  and  is  still  of  fine 
extent  in  spite  of  its  mutilation  at  the  south  end,  one  of 
the  very  few  attempts  at  economy  made  by  the  Imperial 
Government.  It  has  a  great  population  of  statues,  in- 
cluding many  portrait-statues  of  famous  Frenchwomen ; 
but  the  charm  of  it  in  spring  and  summer  is  in  the 
abundance  of  bright  flowers,  fresh  well-watered  grass> 
and  graceful  foliage.  The  reader  must  not  expect  from 
me  any  adequate  description  of  a  garden,  as  I  greatly 
prefer  wild -nature  to  all  gardens  whatsoever;  but  if  I 
were  compelled  to  choose  between  the  lawns  and  alleys 
of  the  Luxembourg  and  a  dusty  street  pavement,  I  would 
bear  with  the  artificiality  of  the  horticulturists.1 

1  I  have  said  nothing  of  the  interior,  which  is  inaccessible  to  the  public, 
with  the  exception  of  the  galleries,  about  which  there  is  nothing  in  the 
slightest  degree  remarkable,  except  some  of  the  pictures  and  statues, 
which  they  contain,  and  which  lie  outside  the  scheme  of  these  papers. 


VI. 

THE   LOUVRE. 

THE  present  writer  once  met,  in  Paris  itself,  with 
a  very  prosperous  manufacturer  from  Yorkshire, 
who  was  not  at  all  aware  that  there  were  any  pictures 
in  the  Louvre.  He  considered  it  "  a  good,  large  build- 
ing," but  had  never  heard  of  its  connection  with  the  fine 
arts;  and  it  is  believed  that  he  returned  to  his  native 
county  without  having  visited  the  interior. 

This  case,  among  visitors  to  Paris,  is  no  doubt  very 
exceptional,  and  there  are  even  great  numbers  of  people 
in  the  world  who  have  never  been  to  Paris,  and  are  yet 
perfectly  aware  that  the  Louvre  is  a  palace  of  the  fine 
arts.  For  myself,  so  far  as  memory  can  go  back  into 
the  hazy  land  of  childhood,  I  can  still  recover  the  dim 
grandeur  of  the  as  yet  unknown  Louvre,  a  palace  of 
colossal,  fantastic  architecture,  like  a  dream,  with  end- 
less halls  filled  with  solemn,  sombre  pictures  in  heavy 
gilded  frames.  To  see  the  reality  was  the  longing  of 
my  youth,  and  when  at  last  I  found  myself  in  that  inter- 
minable gallery  of  Henri  IV.,  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole 
earth  could  not  offer  a  delight  so  glorious. 

Meanwhile  —  and  in  this  I  resembled  nearly  all  other 
English  tourists  —  I  knew  nothing  of  the  noble  castle 


The  Louvre.  105 

which  the  present  Louvre  had  replaced.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  the  building  had  been  made  entirely  as  a  mu- 
seum for  works  of  art,  chiefly  pictures,  and  that  nothing 
of  any  consequence  had  ever  stood  upon  the  ground  it 
now  occupied.  Deeply  interested  in  all  remains  of  the 
Middle  Ages  that  were  to  be  seen  in  my  native  island, 
and  passionately  mediaevalist  at  heart  (for  all  young 
people  who  care  at  all  about  the  past  are  enthusiasts  for 
some  particular  epoch),  I  little  dreamed  that  one  of  the 
most  romantic  royal  castles  that  ever  existed  once  stood 
on  the  ground  now  occupied  by  chilly  halls  of  antique 
sculpture.  Such  a  castle,  if  its  ruins  yet  rose  on  some 
lonely  height  by  the  Seine,  would  be  visited  by  every 
tourist,  and  sketched  by  every  landscape-painter ;  but 
as  it  had  the  misfortune  to  be  enclosed  within  the  walls 
of  a  very  great  city,  where  the  past  is  effaced  to  make 
way  for  the  present,  as  accounts  are  sponged  from  a 
slate,  not  a  stone  is  left  standing,  and  only  the  learned 
have  measured  its  site  or  counted  its  lordly  towers.  Yet 
the  time  when  they  were  new  and  perfect,  with  conical 
roofs  and  gilded  vanes,  is  not  exceedingly  remote  from 
us  in  the  great  past  of  history ;  and  if  they  could  have 
been  simply  left  undemolished,  even  without  repair, 
we  should  still  have  had  an  unrivalled  example  of  the 
fortress-palace  of  the  Middle  Ages.  The  buildings 
formed  an  oblong  court  with  round  towers  at  the  angles 
and  in  the  middle  of  the  sides,  while  nearly  in  the  centre 
of  the  court  stood  a  massive  round  keep,  and  to  the 
south  and  east  were  well-defended  gateways.  All  this 
was  moated,  and  on  the  side  towards  the  river  were 


io6  Paris. 

other  walls  and  towers,  the  last  of  which  maintained  a 
threatened  existence  down  to  the  seventeenth  century. 

The  origin  of  the  word  Louvre  is  believed  to  be  a 
Saxon  word,  Leowar  or  Lower,  which  meant  a  fortified 
camp.  Littre,  however,  does  not  go  so  far  as  this,  but 
contents  himself  with  the  base-Latin  hipara  or  lupera, 
which  was  a  subsequent  creation  as  a  latinized  form  of 
lonve.  Surely  no  two  words  could  be  more  distinct 
than  louve  and  louvre,  while  lower  (pronounced,  of 
course,  by  all  French  people  as  lower)  is  a  very  near 
approximation  to  the  name  of  the  modern  palace.  Nor 
is  there  any  reason  to  imagine  a  connection  between 
the  castle  of  Philippe- Auguste  and  a  she-wolf,  whereas, 
in  its  scheme  of  fortification,  it  bears  a  striking  resem- 
blance to  a  Prankish  moated  camp.  In  "  Paris  &  travers 
les  Ages"  M.  Fournier  borrows  a  drawing  of  one  of  these 
camps  from  Viollet-le-Duc's  "  Dictionary  of  Architec- 
ture," and  the  resemblance  of  its  plan  to  that  of  the 
Louvre  Castle  is  most  striking.  It  stands  near  a  river, 
which  defends  one  of  its  sides ;  it  is  moated  just  as  the 
Louvre  was ;  the  central  round  tower  is  placed  in  the 
great  enclosure  precisely  in  the  same  position ;  the  gate- 
ways are  in  the  same  places,  and  the  principal  part  of  the 
fortress  is  withdrawn  somewhat  from  the  river,  with  an 
extra  defence  towards  the  river-side,  exactly  as  in  the 
Louvre  Castle.  There  seems,  then,  to  be  no  reason  for 
doubting  that  the  name  of  the  present  picture-gallery  is 
due  to  the  early  use  of  its  site  for  military  purposes. 

Although  nothing  of  the  Louvre  Castle  is  now  visible 
from  the  exterior,  there  still  exists  a  small  remnant  of  it 


The  Louvre. 


107 


DETAILS   BY   PIERRE  LESCOT   IN  THE   QUADRANGLE. 

enclosed  within  the  modern  palatial  buildings.  There 
is  a  considerable  piece  of  the  old  wall  in  the  Salle  des 
Cariatides,  and  even  a  small  corkscrew  staircase  which 
belonged  to  the  old  castle. 


1 08  Paris. 

The  transformation  of  the  castle  into  a  palace  began 
long  before  the  present  Renaissance  palace  was  thought 
of.  The  first  step  was  a  consequence  of  the  enclosure 
of  the  Louvre  within  the  walls  of  Paris.  Under  Philippe- 
Auguste  it  had  been  outside,  under  Charles  V.  it  was  with- 
in the  wall;  and  therefore,  being  no  longer  a  fortress 
dependent  on  its  own  strength  for  resistance,  it  could 
be  made  more  habitable  without  danger.  Charles  V. 
increased  its  height  for  the  purpose  of  giving  more 
room,  and  made  great  alterations  in  the  arrangement  of 
the  apartments.  Under  that  sovereign  the  Louvre  still 
retained  all  the  appearance  of  a  feudal  castle.  The 
moat  still  surrounded  it,  and  all  the  towers,  including 
the  great  keep,  were  still  in  their  places ;  but  the  gen- 
eral aspect  was  richer  and  more  elegant  than  before, 
the  towers  were  loftier,  the  masses  of  building  between 
them  had  become  more  spacious,  and  some  new  and 
graceful  domestic  architecture  had  been  added  within 
the  courtyard.  Lovers  of  books  remember  this  epoch 
in  the  history  of  the  Louvre  in  connection  with  the  royal 
library  which  was  established  there.  It  is  unnecessary 
to  observe  that  even  a  royal  library  in  the  fourteenth 
century  was  but  a  small  collection;  and  yet  if  that 
library  of  Charles  V.  could  have  been  preserved  to  our 
own  day,  few  collections  would  have  been  more  valued 
by  the  curious.  Some  rooms  in  a  particular  tower  were 
set  apart  for  it,  two  rooms  at  first,  and  afterwards  a  third 
above  them,  the  whole  containing  rather  more  than 
nine  hundred  volumes.  The  collection  was  afterwards  in- 
creased, and  amounted  in  1410  to  1,125  volumes,  many 


The  Louvre.  109 

of  which  were  afterwards  lent  or  lost ;  and  it  is  said  that 
the  Duke  of  Bedford  carried  off  the  remainder  with  him 
to  England,  after  a  sort  of  purchase,  in  1429. 

After  being  a  splendid  Gothic  palace  the  old  castle 
of  the  Louvre  was  almost  entirely  abandoned  by  the 
French  sovereigns,  and  was  employed  as  a  prison  and 
an  arsenal.  Then  succeeded  a  long  period  of  utter  con- 
fusion, during  which  the  new  Renaissance  palace  was 
gradually  coming  into  existence,  while  the  remnants  of 
the  Gothic  castle  were  devoured  one  after  another,  look- 
ing more  and  more  miserable  as  less  remained,  till  the 
wonder  is  that  so  late  as  Callot's  time  anything  should 
have  been  preserved  at  all. 

The  appearance  of  Francis  I.  upon  the  scene  is  the 
doom  of  the  old  castle.  With  the  help  of  an  inven- 
tive and  tasteful  architect,  Pierre  Lescot,  he  began  the 
Louvre  that  we  know,  —  colossal  in  scale,  magnificent, 
palatial,  —  utterly  different  in  all  ways  from  the  domestic 
architecture  of  the  great  building  sovereigns  who  pre- 
ceded him ;  a  building  of  which  Philippe- Auguste  and 
Charles  V.  could  have  had  no  conception  whatever ;  a 
wonderful  result  of  the  study  of  antiquity,  and  of  its 
influence  coming  to  the  French  through  the  Italian 
mind. 

What  a  strange  revolution  it  is,  how  radical,  how  com- 
plete !  The  beautiful  and  picturesque  French  Gothic 
cast  aside  as  barbarous,  and,  in  its  place,  not  at  all  a 
dull  imitation  of  the  antique,1  but  rather  a  new  modern 

1  It  is  curious  that  Frenchmen  in  the  time  of  Francis  I.  always  spoke 
as  if  the  new  style  were  simply  an  imitation  of  the  antique.  They  did  not 
realize  the  fact  that  it  was  something  more. 


no  Paris. 

art  having  its  roots  far  away  in  the  past  of  Greece  and 
Rome,  and  drinking  nourishment  from  those  distant 
sources.  Imagine  a  French  sovereign  brought  so  com- 
pletely under  this  new  influence  as  not  to  care  in  the  least 
for  the  beautiful  Gothic  art  which  had  so  delighted  his 
ancestors  !  Charles  V.  had  taken  an  honest  pride  in  his 
Gothic  towers,  his  tapestried  halls,  his  comfortable  wain- 
scoted parlors,  the  round  rooms  where  his  books  were 
kept ;  we  know  that  he  was  proud  of  them  because  he 
showed  the  place  himself  to  the  Emperor.  Had  the 
old  Louvre  castle  come  down  to  our  own  times,  it  would 
have  been  restored  in  every  detail  with  scrupulous 
accuracy,  like  Pierrefonds;  and  every  mediaevalist  in 
Europe  would  have  visited  it.  Paris  would  have  pre- 
served it,  as  she  now  preserves  the  H6tel  de  Cluny  or 
the  Sainte  Chapelle.  But  Francis  I.  did  not  care  about 
it  in  the  least.  Everything  Gothic  had  gone  completely 
out  of  fashion,  and  whatever  he  built  was  to  be  in  the 
new  Renaissance  manner.  He  therefore  deliberately 
began  certain  buildings  at  the  Louvre  which  must,  of 
necessity,  either  establish  a  permanent  incongruity,  or 
compel  his  successors  to  remove  every  fragment  of  the 
old  castle.  If  any  Parisian  of  those  days  yet  held  the 
Gothic  times  in  affection,  he  must  have  foreseen  regret- 
fully the  ultimate  consequences  of  this  new  departure. 
"  Ceci  tuera  cela"  he  must  have  said  to  himself.  Con- 
temporary expressions  of  regret  have  come  down  to 
our  own  times ;  especially  for  the  great  tower,  which 
was  first  demolished.  After  that  the  old  castle  seemed 
to  take  a  new  lease  of  existence.  It  was  furbished  up 


The  Louvre.  1 1 1 

thoroughly  to  receive  the  Emperor  Charles  V.  The 
scene  of  the  well-known  picture  by  Bonnington  of  the 
King  and  the  Emperor  visiting  the  Duchess  d'Etampes 
was  probably  in  the  old  Louvre.1 

The  new  structure  was  begun  in  a  very  strange  man- 
ner. The  first  part  of  it  erected  was  a  great  classical 
pavilion,  occupying  the  site  of  the  southwest  corner 
tower;  and  from  this  went  a  line  of  classical  building 
as  far  as  the  Gothic  southeastern  tower,  which  was  pre- 
served. It  is  impossible  to  conceive  an  effect  more  incon- 
gruous than  that  of  these  huge  new  buildings  introduced 
into  an  old  Gothic  castle  of  moderate  dimensions. 

Francis  I.  did  little  more  than  decide  the  fate  of  the 
old  Louvre  by  introducing  the  new  fashion.  His  suc- 
cessors went  on  with  the  work ;  and  the  progress  of  it 
may  be  followed,  reign  after  reign,  till  the  last  visible 
fragment  of  the  Gothic  castle  had  been  ruthlessly  carted 
away.  The  northeastern  and  southeastern  round  towers 
are  still  to  be  seen  in  Israel  Sylvestre's  etchings  done  in 
the  year  1650.  It  is  very  remarkable  that  the  short 
building  which  connects  the  Louvre  with  the  long  gal- 
lery on  the  water-side,  and  which  now  contains  the 
Galerie  d'Apollon,  should  have  been  first  erected,  as 
well  as  a  considerable  portion  of  the  long  gallery  itself, 
when  the  great  square  had  as  yet  made  no  approach  to 
completion.  The  scheme  appears  to  have  been  from 
the  beginning  of  the  most  confused  kind.  A  liking  for 
the  water-side,  and  a  consequent  tendency  to  build  in 
that  direction,  appear  to  have  entirely  overruled  what- 

1  An  etching  from  the  picture  by  Flameng  appeared  in  the  "Port- 
folio "  for  January,  1873. 


ii2  Paris. 

ever  intention  there  may  have  been  to  carry  out  a  de- 
cided plan.  As  soon  as  the  erection  of  the  Tuileries 
had  been  decided  upon,  the  notion  of  a  long  gallery 
from  one  palace  to  the  other  began  to  fix  itself  in 
royal  minds,  and  this  long  before  the  Louvre  itself 
was  finished.  Charles  IX.  began  the  long  gallery  at 
his  mother's  instigation,  and  when  Henri  IV.  finished 
it,  neither  the  Tuileries  nor  the  Louvre  presented  any- 
thing like  a  complete  appearance.  It  is  the  strangest 
story !  Image  an  English  sovereign,  too  poor  to  com- 
plete either  Buckingham  or  St.  James's  palace,  spend- 
ing vast  sums  in  a  line  of  building  to  connect  them ! 
The  conduct  of  Catherine  de  Medicis  is  more  wonder- 
ful still,  for  when  neither  the  Tuileries,  nor  the  Louvre, 
nor  the  connecting  gallery,  was  finished,  she  began 
(with  these  three  huge  enterprises  on  hand)  a  new 
and  most  costly  palace  in  a  different  part  of  Paris. 

While  the  long  gallery  was  slowly  proceeded  with, 
and  the  great  new  buildings  had  gone  no  farther  than 
the  western  side  of  the  great  quadrangle,  there  was  a 
confusion  of  buildings  round  about  these  great  struc- 
tures which  it  is  surprising  that  a  powerful  sovereign 
could  tolerate.  The  rulers  of  France,  in  the  midst  of 
the  most  gigantic  plans,  lived  surrounded  by  eyesores. 
It  has  been  supposed  that  Henri.  IV.  intended  to  clear 
the  ground  and  embellish  it  with  a  garden,  but  he  did 
not  live  long  enough.  Vast  as  is  the  Louvre  that  we 
know,  it  is  as  nothing  in  comparison  with  the  prodigious 
scheme  imagined  by  Richelieu  and  Louis  XIII. ;  a 
scheme  which,  though  never  carried  out,  gave  a  very 


The  Louvre.  113 

strong  impulse  to  the  works,  and  insured  the  completion 
of  the  present  building,  at  least  in  a  subsequent  reign. 
It  is  probable  that  of  all  palace-building  ever  seriously 
imagined  by  a  prince,  the  Louvre  of  Louis  XIII.  was 
the  most  colossal.  If  the  palace  contemplated  by  him 
had  been  carried  out,  it  would  have  extended  to  the  Rue 
St.  Honore,  and  included  four  great  quadrangles  of  the 
same  size  as  the  present  quadrangle,  which,  in  its  turn, 
is  four  times  the  size  of  the  old  castle  of  Philippe- 
Auguste.  Nothing  is  more  remarkable  in  the  history  of 
royal  living  than  the  great  increase  of  scale  that  came  in 
with  the  Renaissance.  In  the  old  Gothic  times  kings  were 
contented  with  houses  of  moderate  size,  and  with  the 
exception  of  the  great  hall  where  the  retainers  assem- 
bled, the  rooms  were  seldom  very  large ;  but  no  sooner 
had  the  Renaissance  revolutionized  men's  ideas,  than 
kings  everywhere  suddenly  discovered  that  vastness  was 
essential  to  their  state.  In  France  this  new  idea  began 
with  Francis  I.,  and  it  is  curious  to  observe  how  it 
worked  out  its  full  consummation.  He  began,  as  we 
have  seen,  with  a  spacious  royal  pavilion  in  the  place  of 
a  narrow  round  tower.  After  him,  the  long  gallery  was 
conceived  and  executed.  Then  Louis  XIII.  imagined 
an  immensity,  which  he  only  partially  executed ;  finally, 
Louis  XIV.,  still  preoccupied  by  the  same  idea  of  huge- 
ness, imagined  another  immensity,  but  this  time  outside 
of  Paris,  —  at  Versailles,  —  and  executed  it.  Thus  at 
length  the  new  demon  of  the  colossal  got  satisfied. 

Happily  for  the  Louvre,  Louis  XIV.  interested  him- 
self in  it  before  he  engulfed  his  millions  at  Marly  and 


114  Paris. 

Versailles.  While  still  quite  young  he  felt  urged  to  set 
to  work  by  the  provokingly  incomplete  appearance  of  the 
palace.  Although  Louis  XIII.  had  demolished  the  last 
towers  of  the  Louvre  Castle,  he  had  not  done  very  much 
towards  the  completion  of  the  palace.  Only  two  sides 
of  the  quadrangle  —  the  western  and  the  southern  — 
were  as  yet  erected.  Louis  XIV.  determined  to  build 
the  two  others,  and  as  he  had  a  clever  and  laborious 
architect  at  his  disposal,  the  work  advanced  rapidly. 
We  see  Le  Vau's  work  at  the  present  day  in  the  interior 
of  the  courtyard ;  but  outside,  especially  towards  the 
river,  it  has  been  modified  or  concealed.  The  story  of 
this  able  architect,  and  his  labors  and  tribulations,  is 
one  of  the  most  pathetic  in  the  history  of  the  fine  arts. 
It  appears  to  be  the  doom  of  great  architects,  from  the 
earliest  times  to  our  own,  to  be  plagued  by  their  em- 
ployers, and  compelled  either  to  modify  their  plans  or 
abandon  them ;  but  few  have  had  to  bear  such  mortifi- 
cations as  Le  Vau.  The  reader  no  doubt  remembers 
that  eastern  end  of  the  Louvre  where  the  great  colon- 
nade is.  That  was  the  beginning  of  his  troubles.  He 
had  made  his  plans  for  that  part  of  the  outside,  which, 
in  his  opinion,  was  of  paramount  importance,  and  had 
even  begun  its  actual  construction,  when  Colbert  became 
superintendent  of  public  works,  and  put  a  stop  to  it. 
Rival  architects  were  appealed  to  for  their  opinion,  and 
of  course  they  all  condemned  Le  Vau,  who  up  to  that 
time  had  been  preferred  to  them.  Not  satisfied,  how- 
ever, with  their  propositions,  or  not  feeling  himself 
competent  to  decide  among  so  many  divergent  pro- 


The  Louvre.  1 1 5 

fessional  schemes,  Colbert  sent  their  drawings  to  Rome 
to  have  the  opinion  of  the  Italian  architects  of  the  day. 
In  those  days  Italian  architects  were  as  firmly  convinced 
that  nobody  but  themselves  knew  anything  about  archi- 
tecture, as  are  the  French  painters  of  the  present  day 
that  English  artists  cannot  have  any  knowledge  of 
painting;  so  their  decision  might  have  been  accurately 
foretold.  They  simply  condemned  everything  that  was 
sent  to  them,  and  said  that  the  French  sovereign  stood 
in  need  of  a  real  architect,  who  must  of  course  be  an 
Italian.  Louis  XIV.  allowed  himself  to  be  dictated  to 
by  men  who  were  supposed  to  be  the  leaders  of  Europe 
in  architectural  matters;  and  he  engaged  the  famous 
Bernini,  who  came  to  Paris  animated  by  such  a  sense  of 
his  own  importance  that  he  not  only  treated  Le  Vau 
and  his  plans  as  non-existent,  but  claimed  the  right  to 
remodel  the  entire  edifice  without  regard  to  the  inten- 
tions of  the  earlier  architects,  Pierre  Lescot  and  Le 
Mercier.  Everything  in  Bernini's  project  was  to  be 
subordinate  to  stately  architectural  effects.  The  con- 
venient arrangement  of  the  interior  was  of  no  conse- 
quence to  him,  and  it  is  said  that  he  even  failed  to 
provide  for  the  comfortable  accommodation  of  the  sov- 
ereign. Notwithstanding  these  very  strong  objections 
to  Bernini,  he  seems  to  have  imposed  himself  for  a  while 
so  that  works  in  stone  and  mortar  were  actually  com- 
menced under  his  superintendence.  Bernini  was  treated 
like  a  prince,  —  paid,  lodged,  and  served  magnificently ; 
but  he  did  not  produce  a  satisfactory  impression,  and 
many  French  influences  united  themselves  against  him, 


1 1 6  Paris. 

so  on  his  departure  to  winter  in  Italy  it  came  to  be 
understood  that  he  should  not  return;  and  he  was  con- 
soled with  a  sum  of  three  thousand  louis  d'or,  and  a  life 
pension  of  twelve  thousand  livres  for  himself  and  twelve 
hundred  for  his  son. 

Then  came  a  very  strange  thing  in  the  history  of  the 
Louvre.  Claude  Perrault,  a  doctor  of  medicine  and 
amateur  architect,  had  elaborated  a  plan  of  his  own  for 
an  east  front,  but  had  carefully  refrained  from  putting  it 
forward  when  the  plans  of  the  professional  architects 
were  sent  to  Italy,  to  be  condemned  by  the  national 
prejudice  of  the  Italians.  When  Perrault's  plan  was 
shown  to  Louis  XIV.,  the  King  had  had  enough  of 
foreign  opinion,  and  even  of  professional  home  opin- 
ion, and  was  in  a  humor  to  judge  by  himself.  He 
had  only  two  projects  left  to  choose  between,  —  that  of 
Le  Vau  (modified  and  enriched)  and  the  new  one  pro- 
posed by  Perrault.  Unfortunately  for  poor  Le  Vau 
there  was  a  stateliness  in  Perrault's  colonnade  which 
pleased  the  pompous  mind  of  the  great  King,  so  it 
was  adopted  with  very  little  regard  to  suitableness. 
The  final  discomfiture  of  Bernini  was  most  fortunate  for 
the  Louvre  in  one  respect,  —  it  saved  the  great  quad- 
rangle which  Bernini  wanted  to  spoil  in  various  ways, 
especially  by  putting  huge  staircases  in  the  four  cor- 
ners; but  though  the  interior  of  the  quadrangle  was 
saved,  it  cannot  be  said  that  the  adoption  of  Perrault's 
plan  was  by  any  means  an  unmixed  benefit.  The  east 
front  does  not  really  belong  to  the  edifice ;  it  is  merely 
stuck  on,  and  when  it  was  built  the  fatal  discovery 


The  Louvre.  117 

was  made  that  it  did  not  fit.  Surely  this  cannot  have 
been  a  mistake,  in  the  common  sense  of  the  word, 
as  a  joiner  makes  a  mistake  of  an  inch  in  a  piece  of 
wood.  Perrault's  front  was  more  than  seventy  feet 
too  long  for  the  building  it  was  to  be  applied  to.  He 
must  have  known  this.  Most  probably  he  was  deter- 
mined to  have  his  fine  long  colonnade  at  all  costs, 
and  so  deliberately  exceeded  the  measurements  at  each 
end,  regardless  of  the  consequences,  which  were  suffi- 
ciently serious.  It  became  necessary  to  advance  the 
river  front  farther  towards  the  river.  It  was  quite  new. 
The  architect  who  had  built  it,  Le  Vau,  was  still  alive, 
yet  the  huge  extravagance  of  building  another,  to 
mask  it,  had  to  be  committed.  This  was  the  last 
drop  of  bitterness  in  the  cup  of  sorrow  served  to 
Le  Vau  in  his  old  age. 

The  consequence  of  Perrault's  audacity  is  that  the 
buildings  on  the  south  side  of  the  quadrangle  are  much 
thicker  than  those  on  the  other  sides.  It  was  not 
thought  necessary  to  advance  the  north  front  in  the 
same  way,  but  the  length  of  Perrault's  colonnade  made 
it  necessary  to  build  a  projecting  mass  at  the  northeast 
corner.  The  external  north  front  always  seemed  to 
have  received  less  attention  than  the  others,  though 
now,  in  consequence  of  the  much-frequented  Rue  de 
Rivoli,  it  is  as  much  seen  as  the  colonnade  itself. 

The  colonnade  has  a  great  reputation,  and  is  no 
doubt  majestic  and  noble  in  its  proportions,  but  it  is 
wonderful  how  little  it  seems  to  belong  to  the  building. 
This  effect  of  being  something  separate  is  felt  more 


1 1 8  Paris. 

strongly  when  we  come  out  of  the  quadrangle  by  the 
east  entrance,  and  then  look  back  on  Perrault's  front. 
In  all  the  alterations  executed  about  the  palaces  nobody 
has  ever  touched  that  front ;  and,  indeed,  it  is  evidently 
one  of  those  works  that  do  not  admit  of  change.  Like 
all  severely  classical  conceptions,  it  is  an  organic  whole 
from  which  every  diminution  would  be  mutilation,  and 
to  which  every  addition  would  be  an  excrescence. 

The  western  front  of  the  Louvre  remained  extremely 
simple  until  the  time  of  Napoleon  III.,  when  a  feeble 
attempt  was  made  to  decorate  it  with  some  applied  or- 
nament, so  that  it  might  hold  its  own  against  the  new 
buildings ;  and  when  this  was  found  to  be  impossible  it 
was  masked  by  a  new  front  of  adequate  magnificence. 
Until  our  own  time  this  west  front  looked  upon  an 
accidental  agglomeration  of  the  commonest  dwelling- 
houses,  which  filled  what  are  now  the  Squares  du 
Louvre  and  the  Place  du  Carrousel.  The  completion 
of  the  great  project,  by  which  the  Tuileries  and  the 
Louvre  were  to  be  united,  has  led  to  the  clearance  and 
embellishment  of  these  spaces. 

One  of  the  greatest  difficulties  about  the  union  of  the 
two  palaces  was  that  they  were  neither  parallel  nor  at 
right  angles  to  each  other.  The  degree  of  inclination  is 
such  that  if  a  line  drawn  along  the  front  of  the  Tuileries, 
and  another  along  the  west  front  of  the  Louvre,  were 
both  prolonged  northward,  they  would  meet  within  the 
walls  of  Paris  near  La  Chapelle.  Every  architect  who 
had  studied  the  union  of  the  palaces  had  proposed 
some  means  of  hiding  this  defect.  In  1810  no  less 


QUADRANGLE  OF  THE  LOUVRE,  WITH  THE  STATUE  OF  FRANCIS  I., 
PLACED   THERE   IN    1855,    AND   SINCE    REMOVED. 


The  Louvre.  119 

than  forty-seven  different  projects  were  submitted  to 
the  Government.  That  of  Percier  and  Fontaine  was 
accepted,  but  never  carried  out.  Those  architects  in- 
tended to  hide  the  defect  by  carrying  a  line  of  building 
from  north  to  south,  straight  across  the  middle  of  the 
Place  du  Carrousel.  When  Napoleon  III.  came  into 
power  he  found  Visconti  in  office  as  architect  of  the 
Louvre,  and  Visconti  had  another  plan,  which  was  exe- 
cuted. If  the  reader  will  refer  to  any  recent  map  of 
Paris,  he  will  understand  Visconti's  scheme  at  a  glance. 
It  consisted  in  the  creation  of  a  new  court  as  wide  as 
the  inside  of  the  old  quadrangle,  but  longer,  and  open 
at  the  west  end,  in  the  direction  of  the  Tuileries.  Be- 
hind these  massive  lines  of  building  are  smaller  enclosed 
courts  to  the  north  and  south,  the  irregularity  of  which 
is  only  seen  by  the  few  who  visit  them.  By  this  means 
it  was  hoped  that  the  want  of  parallelism  between  the 
Tuileries  and  Louvre  would  be  in  a  great  measure  con- 
cealed ;  but,  unfortunately,  the  new  buildings  only  made 
it  more  visible,  by  directing  the  eye  towards  the  Tuile- 
ries in  such  a  manner  as  to  show  plainly  that  the  Pavilion 
de  1'Horloge  was  not  in  the  middle  of  the  view.  Again, 
it  is  easily  seen  from  the  Place  du  Carrousel  that  the 
new  buildings  do  not  occupy  the  same  space  on  the 
north  and  the  south  sides.  If,  however,  they  are  a 
failure  as  a  means  of  hiding  a  defect,  they  have  certain 
merits  of  their  own.  Considered  in  themselves,  as  ex- 
amples of  magnificent  palatial  architecture,  they  deserve 
little  except  praise ;  but  in  their  relation  to  older  build- 
ings round  the  Place  du  Carrousel  they  were  from  the 


1 20  Paris. 

first  objectionable,  because  their  imposing  size  and  rich 
ornamentation  made  everything  else  look  thin,  and  low, 
and  poor.  To  borrow  a  term  employed  by  painters, 
the  huge  Visconti  buildings  simply  "  killed  "  the  Tuile- 
ries.  Their  erection  was  the  doom  of  the  older  palace 
by  making  a  grander  one  a  necessity  of  the  future.  The 
new  pavilions  Richelieu,  Denon,  Turgot,  and  Mollien, 
being  very  splendid  in  themselves  and  near  together, 
made  the  Pavilion  de  1'Horloge  of  the  Tuileries  look 
miserable  and  lonely.  Besides  this,  the  massive  lines 
of  building  that  connected  Visconti's  pavilions,  with 
their  richly  carved  arcades  surmounted  by  colossal 
statues,  and  their  numerous  groups  of  sculpture  on  the 
balustrades  in  front  of  the  roof,  made  the  long  wing 
built  (or  begun)  by  Napoleon  I.  look  fit  for  little  else 
than  a  barrack-yard ;  and  so  we  see  it  already  replaced, 
in  great  part,  by  a  much  more  magnificent  structure, 
which  will  certainly  join  Visconti's  buildings  ultimately 
at  the  Pavilion  de  Rohan.  It  is  narrated  that  Napo- 
leon III.,  after  gazing  one  day  with  a  friend  at  the  new 
buildings  from  a  window  in  the  Tuileries,  turned  away 
with  a  look  of  disappointment,  and  said,  "  If  I  listened 
to  my  own  feelings  I  would  begin  the  whole  thing  over 
again."  There  are  limits,  however,  even  to  the  extrava- 
gance of  a  Napoleon  III. ;  and  though  he  might  easily 
have  squandered  as  much  in  other  and  less  visible  ways, 
he  could  hardly  indulge  in  such  a  public  repentir  as  the 
reconstruction  of  his  own  Louvre. 

The  most  obvious  defect  of  Visconti's  Louvre,  con- 
sidered in  itself,  is  that  the  two  great  fronts  which  face 


The  Louvre.  121 

each  other  across  the  gardens  are  so  near  that  the  spec- 
tator cannot  retire  far  enough  to  see  them  completely. 
They  can,  in  fact,  only  be  seen  in  all  their  majesty 
diagonally  from  the  Place  du  Carrousel.  There  the 
effect  is  stately  in  the  extreme,  and  very  original ;  there 
being,  I  believe,  no  other  palace  in  the  world  which 
offers  a  perspective  of  the  same  kind.  Another  great 
merit  of  the  new  buildings  is  that  as  they  enclose  a  con- 
siderable space  with  their  hidden  courts  and  cover  a 
large  extent  of  ground,  \hzy  furnish  the  space  between 
the  Tuileries  and  Louvre  better  than  some  other  pro- 
jects would  have  furnished  it;  and  this  is  a  merit  of 
some  importance,  considering  the  distance  between  the 
two  palaces.  Indeed,  Visconti's  plan  seems  to  bring 
the  Louvre,  by  continuing  it,  as  far  as  the  pavilions 
Turgot  and  Mollien. 

Visconti's  buildings  have  been  frequently  and  severely 
criticised  as  "  overcharged  with  ornament."  This  is  an 
unintentional  compliment,  for  the  fact  is  that  his  walls 
are  extremely  plain,  incomparably  plainer  than  the  new 
long  gallery  of  the  Louvre,  or  the  new  building  running 
east  of  the  Pavilion  Marsan.  The  great  effect  of  rich- 
ness in  Visconti's  work  is  due  to  the  art  with  which  he 
lavished  ornament  on  certain  conspicuous  places,  espe- 
cially on  his  pavilions.  A  juster  criticism  is  that  his 
work  is  heavy.  No  doubt  it  is  massive  rather  than 
graceful,  but  its  appearance  of  enduring  strength  is  not 
out  of  place  in  a  public  edifice ;  and  though  some  parts 
of  the  old  Louvre  are  more  delicate  and  charming,  none 
are  more  imposing.  The  abundance  of  statues  has  been 


122  Paris. 

blamed,  but  they  are  not  more  numerous  than  in  me- 
diaeval architecture,  and  they  are  better  detached. 

A  simpler  plan  than  that  adopted  by  Visconti  would 
have  been  to  dissimulate  the  want  of  parallelism  between 
the  palaces  by  making  two  or  three  large  quadrangles, 
and  losing  the  radiation  in  the  thickness  of  the  buildings 
between ;  but  such  a  plan  would  have  lost  the  majestic 
effect  of  space  and  distance  which  it  was  Visconti's 
desire  to  preserve.  By  his  plan  the  pavilion  of  the  old 
Louvre  could  be  seen  distinctly  from  the  central  pavilion 
of  the  Tuileries. 

The  united  palaces  make  so  vast  a  building,  that  it 
has  been  found  necessary  to  give  a  distinct  interest  to 
certain  parts.  Thus  the  openings  towards  the  Pont  des 
Saints  Peres,  called  Les  Guichets  des  Saints  Ptres,  form 
an  architectural  composition  in  themselves;  and  that 
part  of  Visconti's  Louvre  which  is  opposite  the  Palais 
Royal  is  a  distinct  work,  composed  for  that  place  and 
not  repeated  elsewhere.  It  is  highly  ornamented,  and 
contrasts  strongly  in  this  respect  with  the  simple  work 
on  each  side  of  it. 

The  sums  of  money  expended  on  the  Louvre  and 
Tuileries  defy  all  calculation.  The  palaces  have  not 
been  erected  according  to  any  sound  principles  of  econ- 
omy, but  by  a  system  of  additions  and  alterations 
involving  immense  sacrifices.  As  the  old  castle  was 
pulled  down  before  it  was  really  decayed,  so  many 
parts  of  the  Louvre  and  Tuileries  have  been  replaced 
prematurely.  The  river  front  erected  by  Le  Vau  and 
masked  by  Perrault  is  a  case  in  point.  Even  the  long 


The  Louvre.  123 

gallery  and  the  Pavilion  de  Flore  erected  by  Henri  IV. 
cannot  be  considered  to  have  lasted  very  long,  as  they 
had  to  be  rebuilt  in  our  own  time.  The  greatest 
spender  on  these  palaces  was  Napoleon  III.  Visconti's 
plans,1  when  finished  by  Lefuel,  had  cost  him  sums 
greatly  exceeding  the  first  estimate  of  a  million  sterling. 
I  believe  that  the  total  expenditure  on  the  palaces  in 
our  time  has  reached  at  least  four  millions ;  and  if  the 
older  work  could  be  accurately  estimated  in  our  money 
it  would  be  equally  costly.  The  total  value  of  the  pal- 
aces before  the  destruction  of  the  Tuileries  can  scarcely 
have  been  less  than  ten  millions  sterling  without  their 
contents ;  and  the  value  of  the  site,  with  its  vast  area  in 
the  best  part  of  Paris,  is  prodigious. 

I  have  little  space  to  speak  of  the  interior,  and  it  is 
not  a  part  of  my  plan  to  attempt  any  description  of 
works  of  art  other  than  architectural.  Many  rooms  in 
the  Louvre  are  simply  plain  receptacles  for  interesting 
things,  but  others  are  interesting  in  themselves,  espe- 
cially the  old  wainscoted  rooms  lined  with  delicately 
wrought  wood-work  from  the  chambers  of  the  kings. 
The  most  sumptuous  room  is  perhaps  the  Galerie 
d'Apollon,  with  its  elaborate  ceiling,  its  tapestries  in 
panels,  and  its  collection  of  precious  objects ;  but  the 
most  imposing  is  the  lofty  salon  carre,  gravely  magnifi- 
cent, and  realizing  the  grand  ideas  of  Henri  IV.  As 
for  the  long  gallery,  it  is  too  long  to  produce  its  due 
effect  upon  the  mind,  which  would  be  equally  potent  if 
it  were  considerably  shorter.  It  appears  to  be  simply  a 

1  Visconti  died  suddenly  in  his  carriage  in  1853. 


124  Paris. 

very  magnificent  tunnel  with  pictures  on  the  sides,  and 
nothing  near  enough  to  be  really  visible  at  the  ends. 
The  mere  sensation  of  being  in  an  almost  endless  tunnel 
has  a  distracting  effect  upon  the  mind.  A  room  of 
moderate  dimensions,  with  a  few  pictures  well  isolated 
and  well  lighted,  is  much  more  favorable  to  the  concen- 
tration of  the  faculties  in  study.  The  clever  comic 
sketcher  Robida  has  shown  us  the  tramway  which, 
according  to  him,  will  be  established  in  that  gallery 
next  century.  The  idea  is  not  unreasonable.  A  neat 
little  carriage  on  rails,  arranged  like  an  Irish  jaunting- 
car,  would  be  a  great  convenience  for  the  thousands  of 
tourists  who  now  wearily  plod  from  end  to  end  of  that 
gilded  and  painted  tunnel,  with  minds  distraught  and 
eyes  that  gaze  on  vacancy. 


VII. 

THE  HOTEL  DE  VILLE. 

JUST  at  this  present  time  (1885)  the  Parisian  Hotel 
de  Ville  seems  the  most  perfectly  beautiful  of  mod- 
ern edifices,  not  only  on  account  of  the  grace  and  inter- 
est of  its  design,  but  also  because  the  materials  are 
so  irreproachable  in  their  freshness  and  purity.  It 
would  be  bold  to  assert  such  a  thing  positively,  but  it 
is  very  likely  to  be  the  simple  truth  that  this  building, 
just  at  present,  is  the  fairest  palace  ever  erected  in  the 
world.  The  reasons  why  this  is  likely  to  be  true  are 
the  following.  To  be  as  perfect  as  the  Hotel  de  Ville 
is  now,  a  building  must  be  erected  all  together  and  with 
a  certain  rapidity ;  but  great  edifices  have  usually  come 
into  being  by  fragments,  so  that  the  parts  first  erected 
had  time  to  get  old,  dingy,  and  even  ruinous  before  the 
plan  was  completed,  while  the  modifications  introduced 
by  successive  architects  have  in  most  cases  been  fatal 
to  the  unity  of  the  work.  I  need  not  go  farther  for  ex- 
amples than  to  the  two  great  Parisian  palaces  that  we 
have  already  studied.  Neither  the  Louvre  nor  the 
Tuileries  was  ever  seen  as  their  first  architects  intended 
them  to  be.  The  palace  of  the  Tuileries,  in  the  whole 
course  of  its  existence,  was  never  at  any  time  a  com- 


126  Paris. 

plete  and  harmonious  work.  When  it  was  harmonious 
(in  the  time  of  Catherine  de  Medicis)  it  was  incom- 
plete, merely  a  beginning,  and  when  it  was  complete 
(in  the  time  of  Louis-Philippe)  it  had  long  since  ceased 
to  be  consistent  and  harmonious.  The  Louvre  is  better, 
but  still  it  is  a  combination  of  three  or  four  different 
architectural  schemes,  and  it  is  spoiled  externally,  as  a 
work  of  art,  by  being  tacked  on  to  a  larger  edifice,  or 
collection  of  edifices.  Now  although  the  ruder  kinds 
of  architecture  admit  of  an  unlimited  jumble  of  addi- 
tions, it  is  not  so  with  the  more  refined.  The  highest 
kinds  of  architecture  approach,  in  the  strictness  of  their 
organization,  to  the  higher  animal  forms.  You  cannot 
give  an  animal  another  limb,  nor  fasten  him  by  suture 
to  another  animal,  without  producing  a  monstrosity  like 
a  five-legged  calf  or  the  Siamese  twins.  So  it  is  in 
classical  architecture  of  the  best  kind,  and  even  (though 
not  quite  to  the  same  degree)  in  the  best  Renaissance 
architecture.  In  Gothic,  the  virtue  of  unity  has  been 
less  valued,  for  the  Gothic  architects  themselves  freely 
added  excrescences  to  their  buildings ;  yet  whenever 
even  a  Gothic  work  is  in  itself  exquisitely  complete,  it 
cannot  be  so  dealt  with  except  at  the  cost  of  that  exqui- 
site completeness.  Any  addition  to  the  Sainte  Chapelle 
would  be  the  destruction  of  its  peculiar  beauty. 

Now  the  present  Hotel  de  Ville  (though  the  design, 
as  I  shall  show  presently,  is  a  growth  from  an  earlier 
design)  is  in  itself  a  complete  architectural  conception 
carried  out  at  once  in  all  its  parts.  It  is  not,  like 
the  Tuileries  of  Philibert  Delorme,  a  beautiful  scheme 


The  Hotel  de  Ville.  127 

spoiled  before  it  was  realized.     And  the  material  per- 
formance  answers   in   all   respects    to   the   idea.     The 
workmanship  throughout  is  of  that  extreme  perfection 
which  is  the  pride  of  Parisian  craftsmen.     The  stone  is, 
just  now,  as  fair  and  immaculate  as  a  selected  piece  of 
Parian  marble.     It  is  almost  as  white  as  snow,  and  as 
faultless.     It  takes  the  most  delicate  sculpture  as  if  it 
were  a  fine-grained  wood,  and  the  quality  of  its  grain 
is  so  equal  that  an  artist   might  sketch  upon  it  as  on 
drawing-paper.     The  only  reproach  that  can  be  made 
against  it  is  that  the  tone  of  the  whole  building  is  cold ; 
but  it  is  hardly  so  in  sunshine,  and  there  is  a  beginning 
of  mosaic  decoration  which  promises  enrichment  of  the 
only  kind  admissible  on  so  delicate  a  structure.     But 
not  only  is  the  stonework  everywhere  of  the  fairest  and 
best,  the  roofs  are  perfect  to  the  smallest  ornament; 
and  so  elegant  that  although  the  building  is  on  a  great 
scale  it  seems  more  beautiful  than  vast,  and  impresses 
rather  by  an  air  of  distinction,  of  aristocracy  even,  than 
by  any  display  of  power  and  wealth.     It  may  seem 
strange  to  speak  of  aristocracy  in  connection  with  an 
edifice  that  is   the  very  centre  and  council-hall  of  a 
mighty  and  sometimes  turbulent  democracy;    but  the 
word  is  not  misapplied,  from  an  artistic  point  of  view, 
to  a  building  so  completely  under  the  government  and 
discipline  of  the  best   architectural    authority,   having 
under  its  command  the  best  and  most  intelligently  obe- 
dient labor.     Such  a  building  has  no  natural  connection 
with  tumult  and  disorder.     The  powers  of  anarchy  did 
not  produce  it,  could  not  have  produced  it.     Nor  is  it 


128  Paris. 

either  the  product  of  Philistine  wealth.  The  cost  of  it 
will  be  about  a  million  and  a  quarter  sterling,  yet  it 
only  comes  to  us  as  an  afterthought  that  so  much  good 
work  is  costly.  There  is  sometimes  more  of  the  self- 
assertion  of  bourgeois  money  in  a  citizen's  private  house 
than  there  is  in  this  great  palace.  Ornament  has  been 
used  sparingly,  and  what  there  is  of  it  is  chiefly  figure- 
sculpture.  The  panels  in  the  front  are  not  carved  but 
simply  divided  by  mouldings,  lozenge-shaped  or  cir- 
cular. The  consoles  under  the  niches  between  the  win- 
dows of  the  central  pavilion  are  very  delicately  carved, 
but  the  wall  behind  them  is  perfectly  plain,  and  the 
windows  themselves  are  surrounded  by  very  simple 
mouldings.  There  is  a  little  carving  on  the  two  taller 
pavilions  on  each  side.  Over  the  arches  of  the  two 
beautiful  dormer  windows,  near  the  clock,  there  is  some 
graceful  figure-sculpture;  and  above  and  about  the 
clock  itself  is  a  fine  central  composition  with  colossal 
figures  and  a  pediment  with  the  ship  of  Paris.  Yet 
even  in  this,  the  richest  and  most  central  part  of  the 
whole  edifice,  the  ornament  is  by  no  means  overcharged, 
and  the  figures  are  relieved  by  plain  spaces  of  masonry, 
as  a  drawing  is  by  its  margin.  Among  the  ornaments 
of  the  roof  the  most  romantic  are  the  men  in  armor, 
with  lances,  who  stand  on  pedestals  along  the  ridge. 
They  are  gilded,  and  produce  a  brilliant  effect  in  strong 
sunshine,  besides  recalling  the  times  when  the  H6tel  de 
Ville  was  first  erected.  There  are  ten  of  them  all 
together,  —  six  on  the  central  pavilion,  and  two  on  each 
of  the  pavilions  to  right  and  left. 


H 
<O 

= 


The  Hotel  de  Ville.  129 

It  is  very  commonly  supposed  that  a  building  has 
little  influence  upon  the  mind  when  it  has  no  historical 
associations,  but  in  the  case  of  the  present  Hotel  de 
Ville  the  gain  is  greater  than  the  loss.  It  is  a  virgin 
building  as  yet,  and  may  be  judged  fairly  on  its  merits 
as  a  beautiful  work  of  art.  It  is  simply  a  palace  which 
looks  as  if  it  were  awaiting  the  arrival  of  a  prince  in 
a  fairy-tale.  It  seems  far  too  delicate  to  be  in  the 
midst  of  a  populace  like  that  of  Paris ;  and  one  who 
loves  architecture  can  scarcely  help  wishing  that  it 
might  be  transported  by  magic  some  night  far  away 
in  the  woods  and  be  safe  from  bullets  and  incendiarism. 
The  ways  by  which  a  people  attains  to  municipal  liberty 
and  parliamentary  government  are  often  so  rough  that 
the  recollection  of  them  gives  pleasure  only  to  the 
enemies  of  both.  If  the  present  building  has  no  splen- 
did memories,  if  it  has  received  no  sovereign  within 
its  walls,  and  been  the  scene  of  no  extravagant  enter- 
tainments, it  is,  at  the  same  time,  absolutely  free  from 
all  revolting  and  horrible  associations.  No  stormy 
councils  have  been  begun  in  its  chambers  to  end  in 
bloodshed;  no  murder  has  been  perpetrated  on  its 
threshold,  nor  have  privileged  spectators  ever  enjoyed 
from  its  windows  the  burning  of  heretics  at  the  stake, 
or  seen  criminals  torn  limb  from  limb  by  four  infuriated 
horses.  And  not  only  is  the  present  edifice  free  from 
the  horrors  of  history,  but  it  is  also  free  from  its 
vulgarities.  The  wretched  quarrels  of  yelling  dema- 
gogues, jumping  on  tables  and  crushing  pens  and 
inkstands  under  their  heels,  have  not,  as  yet,  resounded 

9 


130 


Paris. 


in  a  building  that  seems  fit  only  for  the  presence  of 
gentlemen. 

The  present  building  is  in  its  main  features  a  repro- 
duction of  that  which  existed  before  1871,  but  it  is 
not  a  slavish  reproduction ;  and  a  comparison  between 
the  two  shows  that  the  architect  took  the  opportunity 
for  introducing  many  improvements.  What  has  been 
done  may  be  explained  to  a  certain  extent  as  follows. 
Suppose  that  an  artist  makes  a  drawing,  well  composed, 


THE  H6TEL  DE  VILLE    IN    1583.         FROM   A    DRAWING  BY  JACQUES 

CELLIER. 

and  in  good  general  proportions,  but  still  leaving  room 
for  improvement  in  other  ways ;  and  then  suppose  that 
an  artist  of  riper  knowledge  and  more  cultivated  taste 
goes  over  the  drawing,  pencil  in  hand,  and  shows  how 
the  ideal  which  the  first  artist  had  in  view  may  be 
approached  more  closely.  He  finds  excellent  inten- 
tions, to  which  full  justice  has  not  always  been  done. 
He  says,  "  You  might  have  made  more  of  this  idea ; 


The  Hotel  de  Ville.  1 3 1 

you  intended  this  part  of  your  composition  to  be 
elegant,  —  it  may  be  made  more  elegant  still ;  these 
details  might  be  enriched,  though  without  deviating 
from  your  intention ;  "  and  while  he  talks  in  this  way 
he  revises  the  whole  work  with  his  pencil ;  and  some- 
how, without  making  any  very  obvious  alteration,  he 
gives  it  greater  refinement,  and  makes  it  hold  better 
together.  I  have  not  space  to  show  in  all  ways  how 
this  has  been  done  in  the  new  Hotel  de  Ville,  but  I 
may  mention  one  or  two  instances.  The  gateway 
pavilions  (those  that  rise  on  each  side  of  the  central 
mass)  had  each  of  them  a  sort  of  encorbelled  turret 
or  bartizan,  which,  with  excellent  artistic  judgment, 
had  been  placed  to  the  right  in  one  instance,  and  to  the 
left  in  the  other,  so  as  to  make  each  pavilion  intention- 
ally lopsided  and  unsymmetrical  in  itself,  yet  forming 
an  imperfect  part  of  a  perfect  whole.  The  first  archi- 
tect had  the  idea,  which  was  excellent,  but  he  strangely 
failed  to  make  the  most  of  it.  He  diminished  the 
size  of  the  turret  in  its  uppermost  story  and  gave  it 
no  roof!  It  is  wonderful  that  he  should  have  missed 
such  an  opportunity.  The  architect  of  the  new  build- 
ing has  been  careful  not  to  miss  it.  He  has  carried 
the  turrets  up  to  the  full  height  of  the  pavilions,  and 
then  given  to  each  of  them  a  delightfully  elegant  little 
roof  of  its  own,  carefully  finished  with  an  ornamental 
ridge  and  finials  so  as  to  avoid  a  pyramidal  point,  and 
imitate  in  little  the  roofs  of  the  great  pavilions.  These 
turrets  now  occupy  the  same  position  that  pretty  chil- 
dren have  in  a  family,  and  they  give  a  charm  and 


132  Paris. 

lightness  to  the  whole  edifice  that  could  have  been 
attained  by  no  other  means.  Again,  in  the  ornamental 
structure  about  the  clock,  and  in  the  bell-turret,  the 
architect  has  taken  the  old  motives  and  made  more 
of  them.  After  every  allowance  has  been  made  for 
the  imperfect  draughtsmanship  of  old  engravers,  it 
is  evident  from  their  testimony  that  these  -important 
and  central  parts  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  though  the 
same  in  general  intention  as  at  present,  were  in  old 
times  much  less  elegant  than  they  are  now;  and  we 
know  from  drawings  and  photographs,  if  personal  rec- 
ollection were  insufficient,  that  many  small  improve- 
ments upon  the  edifice  as  it  existed  immediately  before 
the  Commune  have  been  unobtrusively  but  effectively 
introduced  into  the  new  design.  The  corner  pavilions 
are  better  finished  than  they  were  under  Louis  Napo- 
leon, and  so  it  is  all  over  the  building.  The  intention 
has  been  to  preserve  the  traditional  forms,  but  quietly 
to  take  every  opportunity  of  improving  them.  It  is  a 
new  edition  of  an  old  book,  not  revised  by  the  author, 
but  by  a  respectful  editor  more  skilful  than  the 
author  himself. 

It  is  curious  that  the  front  of  the  edifice,  which 
seems  to  us  so  happily  designed,  should  be  the  result 
of  accident.  The  original  plan  included  only  the 
central  mass  with  the  clock  and  the  bell-turret,  and 
the  two  pavilions  which  flank  it.  The  design  was 
very  pretty  and  complete  in  itself;  but  it  was  not  im- 
posing by  its  size :  and  even  such  as  it  was  the  town  had 
the  greatest  difficulty  in  carrying  it  into  execution,  and 


w 

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S    i 

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X 
H 


The  Hotel  de  Ville.  133 

it  lingered  from  reign  to  reign.  Francis  I.  planned 
the  Renaissance  edifice;  but  although  he  employed 
a  hundred  workmen  upon  it,  afterwards  reduced  to 
fifty,  it  was  not  very  forward  when  he  died.  It  was 
not  finished  even  at  the  death  of  Henri  IV.  The  build- 
ing was  in  a  very  imperfect  state  for  seventy-two  years, 
and  remained  imperfect  afterwards.  Nothing  proves 
more  clearly  the  immense  inferiority  of  old  to  modern 
Paris  in  productive  power,  than  the  great  difficulty 
•experienced  by  the  sovereigns  and  people  of  former 
times  in  getting  forward  with  their  architectural  under- 
takings, which  seem  in  almost  every  instance,  except 
that  of  the  Sainte  Chapelle,  to  have  been  far  too  heavy 
for  their  resources.  To  the  modern  municipality  the 
erection  of  such  a  building  as  the  old  Hdtel  de  Ville 
would  be  a  small  matter.  The  present  one,  which  has 
grown  from  its  foundations  in  the  lifetime  of  a  child, 
is  three  or  four  times  as  vast  as  that  which  existed  in 
the  imagination  of  Francis  I.,  and  which  he  could  not 
realize. 

The  H6tel  de  Ville,  the  Tuileries,  and  the  Palace  of 
the  Luxembourg,  are  all  instances  of  enlarged  buildings. 
If  the  reader  has  perused  the  article  on  those  palaces, 
he  will  have  observed  that  they  were  enlarged  in  differ- 
ent ways.  The  Tuileries  grew  by  the  addition  of  masses 
and  pavilions,  first  on  one  side  then  on  the  other,  and 
all  (except  the  very  earliest)  out  of  proportion  with  the 
centre,  which  had  to  be  enlarged  afterwards.  Then  came 
a  general  levelling-up  and  alignement,  the  consequence 
being  a  piece  of  patchwork  and  mending  which  never 


1 34  Paris. 

presented  the  appearance  of  an  artistic  composition. 
The  Luxembourg  was  enlarged  in  another  way.  It 
was  already  overloaded  at  one  end  by  four  heavy 
pavilions  which  stood  too  near  each  other,  when 
Louis-Philippe,  to  get  more  internal  accommodation, 
made  the  four  into  six  by  adding  two  others  and 
advancing  the  front,  thereby  considerably  increasing 
the  defect  of  heaviness.  In  the  case  of  the  H6tel  de 
Ville,  on  the  contrary,  the  enlargement  by  the  addition, 
of  masses  of  building  to  right  and  left,  set  a  little 
back,  and  pavilions  at  the  corners,  coming  forward, 
was  done  so  judiciously,  and  with  such  a  fine  sense 
of  what  is  suitable  and  proportionate  in  a  great  edifice, 
that  although  the  present  architects  had  the  oppor- 
tunity of  substituting  a  design  conceived  all  at  once, 
they  have  been  perfectly  satisfied  with  reproducing 
all  the  main  features  of  the  old  building  with  its 
appendices.  The  truth  is,  that  nobody  could  possibly 
know,  unless  he  was  told,  that  the  wings  were  additions 
or  appendices  at  all.  It  is  the  happiest  instance  of 
successful  enlargement  that  I  ever  met  with.  In  the 
interior  the  increase  of  dimensions  was  carried  out 
by  the  addition  of  two  new  courts,  one  on  each  side 
the  central  quadrangle.  All  these  courts  in  the  new 
building  are  exquisitely  finished.  The  two  lateral  ones 
have  beautiful  winding  staircases,  rich  in  sculpture, 
with  open  balusters  and  turret-roofs,  —  an  idea  which 
has  descended  from  Gothic  times  and  been  adopted 
by  the  Renaissance  with  the  addition  of  elegant  orna- 
ment. The  central  court  is  on  a  higher  level  (access 


The  Hotel  de  Ville.  135 

to  it  is  had  by  stairs  from  the  side-courts  and  the 
vestibule),  and  on  occasions  of  great  festivity  it  will 
probably  be  converted  into  a  vast  hall  by  the  addition 
of  a  tent-roof. 

The  festivities  at  the  H6tel  de  Ville  have  long  been 
celebrated  for  the  combination  of  magnificence  with 
good  taste.  The  present  writer  remembers  seeing  the 
old  building  at  its  best  many  years  ago  at  a  grand  ball 
given  by  the  Municipality  to  Napoleon  III.  and  Victor 
Emmanuel.  He  happened  to  be  in  the  great  court 
when  the  sovereigns  ascended  the  stairs,  and  the  com- 
bination of  beautiful  architecture  with  rich  draperies, 
abundant  illumination,  and  splendid  costumes,  made  a 
spectacle  hardly  to  be  rivalled  elsewhere,  except  in 
some  Italian  palaces.  The  scene  in  the  great  gallery 
was  as  splendid,  but  not  so  entirely  outside  of  the  com- 
monplace. The  great  gallery  was  converted  for  a  short 
time  into  a  throne-room ;  and  I  happened  to  be  at  a 
little  distance  from  the  thrones  on  which  sat  the  two 
potentates,  —  one  of  them  at  that  time  the  most  dreaded 
of  European  majesties,  the  other  only  king  of  Sardinia, 
a  petty  sovereign  who  had  won  recognition  by  sending 
troops  to  the  Crimean  war.  The  guests  formed  a  lane 
all  down  the  room,  and  the  personages  walked  slowly 
along  it,  greeting  those  they  knew.  Since  that  night 
what  changes  !  The  palace  they  came  from  is  now  the 
last  remnant  of  a  ruin;  the  municipal  palace,  then 
thronged  by  a  crowd  of  guests,  has  since  been  reduced 
to  ashes  and  replaced  by  an  entirely  new  structure. 
The  great  Emperor,  after  defeat  and  humiliation,  lies 


1 36  Paris. 

embalmed  in  a  sarcophagus  in  England,  the  young  hope 
of  his  dynasty  by  his  side,  and  the  prince  whom  he 
then  patronized  sleeps  royally  in  the  Pantheon  at  Rome, 
the  first  of  the  kings  of  Italy.  The  lives  of  both  have 
now  receded  completely  into  the  domain  of  history,  and 
are  as  sure  to  be  remembered  in  future  ages  as  those  of 
any  other  famous  personages  who  have  visited  the  old 
Hdtel  de  Ville.  Italy  will  never  forget  the  rough  but 
good-natured  and  hearty  soldier  who  so  often  sacrificed 
his  simple  personal  tastes  to  the  duties  of  a  more  and 
more  exalted  station ;  nor  is  France  ever  likely  either 
to  forget  or  forgive  the  statesman,  at  one  time  consid- 
ered so  astute,  the  ultimate  outcome  of  whose  deep-laid 
schemes  was  the  aggrandizement  of  her  neighbors  and 
the  humiliation  of  herself.  There  are  a  hundred  other 
associations  with  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  which  it  would  be 
easy  to  enumerate,  but  these  are  among  the  most  re- 
cent If  the  Republic  lasts,  it  is  not  very  probable  that 
the  new  building  will  often  be  enlivened  by  the  presence 
of  crowned  heads;  but  the  municipality  will  at  least 
be  able  to  hold  its  sittings  without  the  uncomfortable 
anticipation  of  those  requests  for  money  which  so 
frequently  came  from  the  French  sovereigns  to  the 
provosts  of  Paris  and  the  tchevins  of  old.  The  only 
real  inconveniences  from  which  the  modern  munici- 
pality is  ever  likely  to  suffer  are  the  excess  of  its  own 
power  and  the  temptations  to  its  abuse.  The  Munici- 
pal Council  has  such  great  resources  that  it  is  constantly 
tempted  to  place  itself  in  antagonism  to  the  State.  The 
two  never  work  smoothly  together  for  very  long,  and 


The  Hotel  de  Ville.  137 

the  notice  of  civic  independence  has  taken  such  deep 
root  in  many  minds  that  they  are  always  ready  to  see 
infringements  of  it  in  the  most  ordinary  acts  of  the 
National  Government. 

Whatever  of  evil  there  may  be  in  our  own  time,  what- 
ever evil  deeds  may  have  been  done  during  the  Com- 
mune, men  are  certainly  less  barbarous  than  they  were 
four  or  five  hundred  years  ago.  Executions  are  less 
cruel,  prisoners  are  treated  with  more  humanity.  I 
have  passed  rapidly  over  the  executions  which  took 
place  formerly  in  the  Place  de  Greve,  the  open  space 
just  before  the  Hdtel  de  Ville,  where  they  are  making 
the  new  garden-squares,  and  where  boys  amuse  them- 
selves with  bicycles  on  the  smooth  asphaltum ;  but  if 
the  reader  wishes  to  thrill  his  nerves  with  horror,  he 
will  find  nothing  more  terrible  than  the  deliberate  cru- 
elty of  those  executions  in  old  times ;  the  simple  mur- 
der by  a  discharge  of  musketry  under  the  Commune 
was  tender  mercy  in  comparison.  Our  warfare,  too, 
barbarous  as  it  still  remains,  is  not  quite  so  horrible  as 
in  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth  century,  when  hundreds 
of  English  prisoners  were  thrown  into  the  Seine  near 
the  Hotel  de  Ville,  with  bound  hands  and  feet,  and 
drowned  there  in  the  Seine  before  the  eyes  of  an  un- 
protesting  populace.  Let  us  confess  frankly  that,  not- 
withstanding all  the  picturesque  interest  of  past  times 
so  delightful  to  novelists  and  painters,  they  are  terrible 
if  studied  seriously,  —  terrible  if  once  we  realize  what 
they  were ;  and  there  is  no  place  in  the  world  where 
we  feel  this  horror  of  the  past  more  strongly  than  on 


1 38  Paris. 

the  Place  de  Greve,  just  before  the  lovely  modern  pal- 
ace which  I  have  been  trying  to  describe.  The  horror 
of  that  dreadful  night  in  May,  1871,  when  the  whole 
edifice  and  the  houses  opposite  were  in  flames,  does 
not  really  equal  the  horror  of  one  quiet  execution  in 
the  feudal  times.  The  destruction  of  a  certain  amount 
of  property  however  valuable,  the  loss  of  a  certain  num- 
ber of  lives  in  a  street  battle  however  passionate  and 
sanguinary  the  conflict,  are  less  odious  than  the  quiet 
application  of  vindictive  torture  to  a  single  unresisting 
victim.  There  are  places  in  Europe  where  our  best 
charity  to  the  past  is  to  forget  it  if  we  can,  and  this  is 
one  of  them.  Let  us  look  hopefully  to  the  future; 
and  may  this,  the  fairest  municipal  palace  in  the  whole 
world,  hear  no  harsher  sounds  than  the  discussions  of 
citizens  in  council,  and  see  no  fiercer  flame  than  the 
light  of  its  own  festal  illuminations. 


VIII. 

THE  PANTHEON,  THE  INVALIDES,  AND  THE 
MADELEINE. 

AS  in  a  former  article  the  two  principal  Gothic  edi- 
fices in  Paris  were  studied  together,  so  in  the 
present  case  the  reader  is  invited  to  consider  three  of 
the  principal  Renaissance  buildings  at  the  same  time. 
The  first  of  these  is  a  church,  which  has  been  employed 
alternately  for  divine  worship  and  as  a  Walhalla  for  illus- 
trious Frenchmen,  and  which  to  the  present  day  bears 
traces  of  both  uses ;  the  second  is  a  church  which  has 
become  a  mausoleum  exclusively  associated  in  the  pop- 
ular mind  with  a  great  renown  entirely  unforeseen  when 
the  building  was  erected ;  the  third,  again,  was  begun 
as  a  church,  continued  with  the  intention  of  making  it 
a.  temple  for  military  commemorations,  and  finally  used 
for  ecclesiastical  purposes,  while  still  preserving  the 
external  appearance  of  a  Greek  temple,  modified  by 
Roman  and  Gallic  imitation.  All  these  edifices  have 
thus  been  strangely  connected  both  with  religion  and 
with  the  vanities  of  human  celebrity.  All  of  them, 
again,  have  a  similar  architectural  interest  as  modern 
experiments  with  antique  architectural  forms. 

It  is  one  of  the  commonest  of  errors,  among  people 
who  do  not  trouble  themselves  to  keep  chronology  in 


1 40  Paris. 

mind,  to  connect  Gothic  architecture  with  Christianity 
by  such  an  intimate  association  that  they  can  hardly 
separate  the  two.  Pointed  arches  and  painted  windows 
appear  to  them  ecclesiastical  and  even  religious,  while 
classical  architecture  seems  much  more  suitable  for  lay 
purposes.  Nobody  who  has  this  prejudice  can  regard 
a  Renaissance  church  with  any  fairness.  The  forms  of 
the  architecture  in  Renaissance  churches  are  not  exactly 
those  with  which  the  early  Christians  were  familiar,  but 
they  are  incomparably  nearer  to  them  than  the  Gothic 
forms.  As  Gothic  work  looks  very  old  and  ruinous 
(when  it  has  not  undergone  restoration),  we  vaguely 
give  it  credit  for  great  antiquity,  while  the  real  reason 
for  its  ancient  appearance  is  because  it  is  an  exceedingly 
frail  and  unsubstantial  kind  of  architecture,  which,  after 
a  short  time,  requires  incessant  repair.  If  you  divide 
in  three  parts  the  centuries  which  have  passed  since  the 
foundation  of  Christianity,  you  will  place  Gothic  archi- 
tecture, a  French  invention,  in  the  third.  It  is,  in  fact, 
the  most  modern  of  all  the  really  original  styles,  and 
one  which  was  never  associated  with  the  early  history 
of  Christianity.  There  is,  consequently,  no  religious 
reason  for  the  preference  of  Gothic  architecture  for 
churches,  unless  it  is  found  that  pointed  arches  are 
more  favorable  to  religious  feelings  than  round  ones, 
and  the  various  fanciful  columns  and  capitals  of  the 
Gothic  builders  more  serious  than  the  limited  but  well- 
studied  inventions  of  the  Greeks. 

The  idea  of  the  dome  came  to  France  from  Italy,  and 
it  is  unnecessary  in  this  place  to  trace  the  architectural 


The  Pantheon,  Invalides,  and  Madeleine.   141 

pedigree  of  the  French  Pantheon  beyond  its  ancestor, 
St.  Peter's  at  Rome,  the  common  inspirer  of  western 
imitations.  Soufflot,  the  architect  of  the  Pantheon,  was 
one  of  those  narrow-minded  artists  who  identify  them- 
selves completely  with  a  certain  phase  of  art,  and  who, 
perhaps,  by  that  concentration  of  their  faculties,  ex- 
press themselves  in  it  as  naturally  as  in  their  native 
language.  Soufflot  committed  terrible  havoc  in  Notre 
Dame,  and  proved  to  all  future  ages  that  he  had  neither 
knowledge  nor  feeling  about  Gothic;  but  when,  in  1764, 
he  began  the  church  of  St.  Genevieve,  he  had  found 
congenial  occupation.  The  foundation-stone  was  laid 
by  Louis  XV.  with  a  votive  intention ;  but  the  building 
was  completed  in  the  beginning  of  the  Revolution,  and 
the  Constituent  Assembly  opened  it  as  a  "  Pantheon," 
or  temple  dedicated  to  all  gods,  including  by  extension 
all  heroes  or  great  men.  The  well-known  inscription 
then  placed  in  large  letters  upon  the  frieze  over  the 
portico,  "  AUX  GRANDS  HOMMES  LA  PATRIE  RECONNAIS- 
SANTE,"  is  a  clear  explanation  of  the  sense  attached  to 
the  Greek  name  of  the  building;  and  a  very  fine  in- 
scription it  is,  saying  all  that  is  needed  in  six  perfectly 
cadenced  words,  full  of  noble  purpose  and  patriotic 
feeling.  Louis  XVIII.  handed  over  the  edifice  to  the 
clergy  in  fulfilment  of  the  original  intention  of  Louis 
XV.,  and  it  remained  in  their  hands,  with  the  inscrip- 
tion effaced,  until  the  revolution  of  July.  Under  Louis- 
Philippe  and  the  Second  Republic  it  was  a  Pantheon 
again,  with  the  inscription  restored ;  but  on  the  establish- 
ment of  Louis  Napoleon's  personal  power,  when  he  was 


142 


Paris. 


buying  the  support  of  the  clergy,  the  Pantheon  was 
given  to  them  a  second  time,  and  they  were  allowed 
to  keep  it  until  the  funeral  of  Victor  Hugo.  They  re- 
established altars  in  the  interior,  and  a  cross  upon  the 


THE   PANTHEON. 


dome,  but  they  did  not  efface  the  inscription.  In  the 
early  revolutionary  stage  of  the  Third  Republic,  there 
being  some  apprehension  that  the  Pantheon  might  be 
secularized  again,  a  plan  was  matured  for  its  decoration 


The  Pantheon,  Invalides,  and  Madeleine.  143 

with  religious  paintings  as  a  sort  of  final  prise  de  pos- 
session in  favor  of  the  Church;  but  this  has  availed 
nothing,  and  now  (1885)  it  seems  possible  that  the 
paintings  may  be  removed.  This  could  be  done,  I 
believe,  without  destroying  them.1 

Much  opprobrium  has  been  cast  upon  the  Republi- 
can Government  for  its  conduct  in  this  matter,  but  it 
may  be  remembered  that  a  monarch,  Louis-Philippe, 
did  exactly  the  same  thing;  and  if  consecration  is  of 
eternal  effect,  then  the  English  noblemen  who  have 
turned  old  abbeys  into  luxurious  country-houses  must 
be  equally  culpable.  The  Pantheon  has  never  been  a 
parish  church,  and  the  persons  whose  desires  or  in- 
terests have  been  most  interfered  with  are  a  dead  king 
and  a  saint  who  died  in  the  early  twilight  of  French 
history. 

The  Pantheon  has  stood  the  test  of  a  hundred  years 
of  criticism,  without  which  no  building  can  be  con- 
sidered sure  of  permanent  fame.  Its  merits  are  not 
of  a  kind  to  excite  enthusiasm,  but  they  gain  upon  us 
with  time,  and  satisfy  the  reason  if  they  do  not  awaken 
the  imagination.  We  can  never  feel  with  regard  to  a 
severe  classical  building  like  the  Pantheon  the  glow  of 
romantic  pleasure  which  fills  sense  and  spirit  in  Notre 
Dame  or  the  Sainte  Chapelle.  If  there  is  emotion  here 
it  is  of  a  different  kind.  The  building  has  a  stately  and 
severe  dignity ;  it  is  at  once  grave  and  elegant,  but  it 
is  neither  amusing  as  Gothic  architecture  often  is  by  its 

1  As  the  removal  of  the  paintings  is  uncertain,  the  account  of  some  of 
them  which  appeared  in  the  first  edition  of  this  book  is  retained. 


1 44  Paris. 

variety,  nor  astonishing  as  Gothic  buildings  are  by  the 
boldness  with  which  they  seem  to  contravene  the  ordi- 
nary conditions  of  matter.  The  edifice  consists  of  a 
very  plain  building  in  the  form  of  a  cross,  with  a  pedi- 
ment on  pillars  at  one  end  and  a  dome  rising  in  the 
middle.  There  are  no  visible  windows,  a  renunciation 
that  adds  immensely  to  the  severity  and  gravity  of  the 
composition,  while  it  enhances  the  value  of  the  columns 
and  pediment,  and  gives  (by  contrast)  great  additional 
lightness  and  beauty  to  the  admirable  colonnade  be- 
neath the  dome.  There  does  not  exist,  in  modern 
architecture,  a  more  striking  example  of  the  value  of 
a  blank  wall.  The  vast  plain  spaces  are  overwhelming 
when  seen  near,  and  positively  required  the  little  deco- 
ration which,  in  the  shape  of  festooned  garlands,  relieves 
their  upper  portion.  At  a  little  distance  the  building  is 
seen  to  be,  for  the  dome,  what  a  pedestal  is  for  a  statue ; 
and  the  projection  of  the  transepts  on  each  side  of  the 
portico,  when  the  edifice  is  seen  in  front,  acts  as  margin 
to  an  engraving.  Had  their  plain  surfaces  been  en- 
riched and  varied  with  windows,  the  front  view  would 
have  lost  half  its  meaning;  the  richness  of  the  Corin- 
thian capitals  and  sculptured  tympanum,  and  the  im- 
portance of  the  simple  inscription,  draw  the  eye  to 
themselves  at  once. 

The  situation  of  the  Pantheon  is  the  finest  in  Paris 
for  an  edifice  of  that  kind.  Only  one  other  is  compar- 
able to  it,  Montmartre,  on  which  is  now  slowly  rising  a 
church  of  another  order,  dedicated  to  the  Sacr&  Cceur. 
The  dome  of  the  Pantheon  is  one  of  the  great  land- 


The  Pantheon,  Invalides,  and  Madeleine.   145 

marks  of  Paris ;  it  is  visible  from  every  height  and  from 
a  thousand  places  of  no  particular  elevation.  It  does 
not  simply  belong  to  its  own  quarter,  but  to  the  whole 
city. 

The  interior  is  interesting  in  different  ways,  both  as 
an  experiment  in  architecture  and  as  an  experiment  in 
the  employment  of  mural  painting  on  an  important 
scale.  The  first  point  likely  to  interest  an  architectural 
student  is  the  manner  in  which  the  architect  has  com- 
bined his  vaults  and  his  pillars.  Soufflot's  tendency 
(unlike  that  of  the  architects  of  St.  Peter's  in  Rome  and 
St.  Paul's  in  London)  was  towards  an  excessive  light- 
ness. His  project  was  to  erect  his  dome  on  elegant 
pillars ;  but  these  were  found  insufficient,  and  another 
architect  (Rondelet)  replaced  them  by  massive  piers 
of  masonry.  Elsewhere  there  are  Corinthian  columns 
carrying  a  frieze  and  cornice,  and  above  the  cornice  a 
groined  (intersected)  vault,  of  course  with  round  arches, 
and  having  exceedingly  slender  terminations,  as  this 
system  of  vaulting  cuts  away  nearly  everything  and 
leaves  a  minimum  of  substance  at  the  corners  to  bear 
the  weight.  You  may  see  such  vaults  frequently  in  the 
works  of  the  early  Italian  painters,  but  they  always  sup- 
port them  by  very  slender  and  elegant  columns  ;  where- 
as in  SoufHot's  work  they  rest  on  a  Corinthian  order, 
with  its  entablature,  which  gives  the  idea  of  a  contra- 
diction, for  either  the  vaulting  is  too  light  or  the  en- 
tablature is  needlessly  heavy.  The  Italian  painters 
were  consistent  on  the  side  of  lightness,  Wren  on  the 
side  of  heaviness ;  but  it  seems  as  if  Souffiot  had  rather 


146 


Paris. 


confounded  the  two,  so  far  as  the  satisfaction  of  the  eye 
is  concerned. 

There   is   a  remarkable  peculiarity   about   the   level 
of  the  floor;   the  aisles  and   transepts  are  higher  than 


THE  PANTHEON  FROM  THE  GARDENS  OF  THE  LUXEMBOURG. 

the  nave,  into  which  you  have  to  descend  by  five 
steps.  The  general  aspect  of  the  interior  is  agreeable, 
from  the  pleasant  natural  color  of  the  stone  and  its 
thoroughly  careful  finish  everywhere;  but  the  large 


The  Pantheon,  Invalides,  and  Madeleine.   147 

spaces  of  wall,  though  divided  by  half-columns,  were 
felt  to  be  too  bare,  and  there  have  been  various 
projects  for  their  decoration.  That  which  is  now 
being  carried  into  execution  includes  the  painting 
of  many  mural  pictures  at  a  height  which  we  should 
describe  as  the  line  in  an  exhibition,  and  also  of 
decorative  friezes  at  a  greater  height  above  the  eye. 
I  have  mentioned  the  columns  which,  half  buried  in 
the  wall,  divide  what,  without  them,  would  be  its  too 
extensive  spaces.  The  existence  of  these  columns 
cuts  the  wall  into  a  series  of  upright  panels  not  always 
convenient  for  the  purposes  of  an  artist,  so  it  has  been 
decided  that  the  larger  compositions  should  include 
three  of  these  spaces,  and  that  the  picture  should  in 
these  cases  appear  as  if  it  were  seen  behind  the  col- 
umns, which  themselves  are  left  without  any  kind  of 
painting  or  decoration.  The  plan  was  the  best  that 
could  have  been  adopted  under  the  circumstances,  as 
the  artists  would  have  felt  cramped  by  being  confined 
to  narrow  upright  panels ;  but  it  required  very  careful 
management  to  preserve  Soufflot's  architectural  effect. 

Mural  painting  ought  never  to  make  us  feel  as  if  the 
wall  were  taken  away,  because  that  is  an  injury  to  the 
architecture.  The  painting  should  be  so  far  removed 
from  realism  that  we  feel  the  wall  to  be  a  wall  still, 
upon  which  certain  events  have  been  commemorated. 
Among  French  mural  painters,  not  one  has  under- 
stood this  so  well  as  Puvis  de  Chavannes,  and  it  would 
have  been  wise  to  entrust  to  him  the  entire  decoration 
of  the  Pantheon,  both  for  the  sake  of  the  architecture 


1 48  Paris. 

and  for  the  unity  of  the  work;  but,  unfortunately  (so- 
far  as  these  considerations  are  concerned),  other  men 
have  also  been  called  in,  men  of  great  ability,  no  doubt, 
yet  who  were  not  disposed  to  make  the  necessary 
sacrifices.  Puvis  de  Chavannes  is  essentially  a  mural 
painter.  He  has  accepted  the  conventionalisms  of  that 
kind  of  art,  and  his  mind  is  so  exceptionally  consti- 
tuted that  such  restraints  are  evidently  agreeable  to  him 
and  favorable  to  his  inventive  powers.  His  large  work  in 
the  Pantheon  represents  the  finding  of  Saint  Genevieve 
when  a  child  by  Saint  Germain  and  Saint  Loup,  at 
Nanterre,  when  they  were  journeying  towards  England. 
The  bishop  sees  that  the  child  has  a  religious  aspect, 
"  has  the  Divine  seal  upon  her,"  and  predicts  for  her 
a  memorable  future.  This  takes  place  in  a  vast  land- 
scape, with  undulating  ground  and  fine  trees  in  the 
middle  distance  against  a  line  of  blue  hills,  and  a  blue 
sky  with  white,  long  clouds.  In  the  foreground  is  a 
rustic  scene,  including  the  milking  of  a  cow  under 
a  shed ;  and  in  the  middle  distance  we  have  a  view 
of  Nanterre,  or  at  least  of  a  mediaeval  city.  The 
figures  are  all  very  simply  painted  in  dead  color,  kept 
generally  pale  and  hardly  going  beyond  tints,  which 
are  often  false  so  far  as  nature  is  concerned,  but  never 
discordant.  Such  painting  is  very  reticent,  very  con- 
sistent; and,  though  it  is  not  true,  it  contains  a  great 
amount  of  truth,  and  implies  far  more  knowledge  than 
it  directly  expresses.  The  landscape  background,  for 
example,  is  simple,  but  it  is  not  ignorant;  it  shows 
quite  plainly  that  the  painter  is  a  man  of  our  own 


The  Pantheon,  Invalides,  and  Madeleine.   149 

century,  perfectly  conversant  with  our  knowledge,  yet 
decided  not  to  go  beyond  a  certain  fixed  point  in  the 
direction  of  actual  imitation.  The  figures  are  exceed- 
ingly dignified ;  but  when  the  painter  gets  away  from 
the  muscular  type,  and  has  to  deal  with  weaker  men  or 
with  children,  he  is  not  so  satisfying.  A  smaller  pic- 
ture represents  the  child  Saint  Genevieve  praying  in 
a  field,  while  the  rustics  watch  and  admire  her.  The 
sentiment  here  is  very  pure  and  simple,  like  that  of 
an  idyllic  poem.  In  the  upper  part  of  the  composition 
a  ploughboy,  behind  trees,  watches  the  saint  while 
his  oxen  rest;  in  the  lower  part,  a  peasant  man  and 
a  woman  watch  her  also. 

Now,  although  these  paintings  tell  their  story  per- 
fectly, not  a  single  person  or  other  object  in  them  is 
so  far  realized  as  to  make  us  forget  the  wall-surface. 
A  story  has  been  told  upon  the  wall  just  as  an  inscrip- 
tion might  have  been  written  upon  it,  but  nothing  has 
been  done  to  take  the  wall  away.  Even  the  pale  tint- 
ing is  so  contrived  as  not  to  contrast  too  violently  with 
the  natural  stone  around  it.  Let  the  visitor  who  has 
just  seen  these  paintings,  and,  perhaps,  been  a  little  put 
out  by  their  conventionalism,  glance  up  from  them  to 
the  pendentives  under  the  dome  painted  by  Carvallo 
from  drawings  by  Gerard.  Those  works  are  strong 
in  darks,  and  in  far  more  powerful  relief  than  the  situa- 
tion warrants.  They  are  also  surrounded  by  heavily 
gilt  carvings,  which  make  the  surrounding  stone  look 
poor;  in  short,  from  the  architectural  point  of  view, 
they  are  a  series  of  vulgar  blunders.  I  would  not  use 


150  Paris. 

language  of  this  kind  with  reference  to  so  serious,  so 
noble  an  artist  as  Jean  Paul  Laurens,  but  I  cannot  help 
regretting  that  his  magnificent  composition  of  the  death 
of  Saint  Genevieve  was  not  in  some  public  gallery  rather 
than  in  the  Pantheon.  The  realization  is  far  too  power- 
ful for  mural  painting.  We  do  not  see  a  record  on 
a  wall,  but  the  wall  is  demolished,  and  through  the 
opening  we  witness  the  scene  itself,  the  infinitely 
pathetic  closing  scene  at  the  end  of  a  saintly  life,  when, 
even  in  the  last  moments  of  extremest  weakness,  a 
venerable  woman  still  throws  into  the  expression  of 
her  countenance  the  benedictions  that  she  cannot  utter. 
One  consequence  of  the  external  force  with  which  all 
the  figures  and  objects  are  realized  in  full  modelling 
and  color  is  that  the  two  columns  which  cross  the  work 
vertically  are  felt  to  be  in  the  way;  in  other  words, 
the  architecture  of  the  Pantheon  is  in  the  way,  and 
so  far  from  helping  the  architect,  the  painter  has  done 
him  an  injury,  for  what  are  smoothly  chiselled  stones, 
what  are  fluted  columns  and  pretty  Corinthian  capitals, 
to  the  awful  approach  of  Death? 

On  the  other  mural  paintings  in  the  Pantheon  we 
have  no  need  to  dwell.  So  far  as  I  know  them  yet  * 
they  belong  to  the  class  of  historical  genre  common 
in  the  French  salons,  and  have  neither  the  power 
of  Laurens  nor  the  careful  adaptation  of  Puvis  de 
Chavannes.  Cabanel's  pictures  represent  three  scenes 
in  the  history  of  Saint  Louis,  —  one  his  childhood,  when 

1  Some  paintings  on  the  south  side  have  been  uncovered  lately,  and 
these  I  have  not  seen. 


The  Pantheon,  Invalides,  and  Madeleine.   151 

he  is  being  taught  by  his  mother;  a  second,  his  civil 
justice;  and  a  third,  his  military  life  as  a  Crusader. 
The  first  subject  is  the  best  suited  to  Cabanel's  talent, 
and  is  a  pretty  domestic  scene.  The  subject  selected 
by  M.  Maillot  for  his  paintings  in  the  south  transept 
is  a  mediaeval  procession  with  the  relics  of  Saint 
Genevieve,  and  these  paintings  are  a  good  example 
of  a  danger  different  from  the  powerful  realization  of 
Laurens.  In  the  present  instance  the  evil  is  a  crudity 
of  brilliant  color,  like  mediaeval  illumination,  which 
always  seems  out  of  place  on  a  wall  unless  it  is  carried 
out  consistently  by  polychromatic  decoration  through- 
out the  building. 

It  is  sometimes  said  by  journalists  that  these  paintings 
are  frescos  (wall-paintings  are  generally  taken  for  fres- 
cos). The  fact  is  that  they  are  oil-paintings  on  toile 
marouflte,  that  is,  on  canvas  fastened  to  the  wall  by 
a  thick  coat  of  white-lead.  This  is  now  the  accepted 
method  for  mural  painting  in  France.  It  is  convenient 
for  the  artist,  as  it  allows  him  to  paint  in  his  own  studio 
in  a  material  he  is  accustomed  to  use ;  and  it  is  believed 
to  be  as  permanent  as  any  other. 

The  dome  of  the  Pantheon  attracts  the  eye  simply 
by  its  own  architectural  beauty ;  but  that  of  the  Inva- 
lides,  by  Mansard,  is  lustrous  with  abundant  gilding, 
and  on  a  sunny  day  shines  over  Paris  with  the  most 
brilliant  effect.  It  is  splendid  against  one  of  those 
cerulean  skies  that  are  still  possible  in  the  capital  of 
France.  Certainly  nothing  does  so  much  for  the  splen- 
dor of  a  great  city  as  very  conspicuous  gilding.  There 


152 


Paris. 


are  drives  in  Paris,  as,  for  instance,  from  the  Trocadero 
to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  during  which  the  dome 
of  the  Invalides  accompanies  you  like  a  harvest-moon. 
On  a  nearer  approach  it  is  the  architecture  that  claims 
attention.  The  dome  itself  is  fine,  but  in  many  re- 


THE   INVALIDES. 


spects  the  building  as  a  whole  is  greatly  inferior  to  the 
Pantheon.  Soufflot  made  the  body  of  his  church  an 
ample  base  for  his  dome  in  every  direction ;  but  at  the 
Invalides  one  receives  the  impression  of  a  man  with 
a  prodigious  head  on  a  small  body  and  very  narrow 
shoulders.  The  columns  of  the  dome  are  in  couples, 


The  Pantheon,  Invalides,  and  Madeleine.  153 

with  projecting  masses  doing  the  work  of  buttresses. 
This  gives  more  light  and  shade  than  the  simple  colon- 
nade of  the  Pantheon,  but  not  such  beautiful  per- 
spective, as  the  projections  interfere  with  it.  The 
composition  of  the  front  makes  us  feel  strongly  the 
special  merits  of  the  Pantheon.  Instead  of  the  majestic 
columns  of  Soufflot's  work,  his  rich  pediment,  and  the 
massive  plain  walls  on  each  side  as  margin,  we  have  in 
the  Invalides  a  poor  little  pediment  reduced  to  still  more 
complete  insignificance  by  the  obtrusive  windows,  etc., 
on  each  side  of  it.  Again,  the  front  of  the  Invalides 
offers  an  example  of  that  vice  in  Renaissance  architec- 
ture which  Souffiot  avoided,  —  the  superposition  of  dif- 
ferent orders.  It  is  divided  into  two  stories,  Roman 
Doric  below  and  Corinthian  above,  a  variety  that  the 
Renaissance  architects  enjoyed,  though  it  does  not  seem 
more  desirable  than  two  languages  in  one  poem. 

This  criticism  does  not  affect  either  the  beauty  of 
Mansard's  dome  as  a  fine  object  seen  from  a  distance, 
or  the  importance  of  the  interior,  one  of  the  most 
impressive  in  all  Paris,  especially  since  it  has  become  the 
mausoleum  of  Napoleon  I. 

A  lofty  dome,  supported  by  massive  piers  perforated 
with  narrow  arched  passages  and  faced  with  Corinthian 
columns  and  pilasters,  a  marble  floor  of  extraordinary 
richness  and  beauty  everywhere,  all  round  the  base  of 
the  dome  a  stair  of  six  marble  steps  descending  to  the 
circular  space  under  it,  and  in  the  midst  of  this  space 
a  great  opening  or  well,  with  a  diameter  of  more  than 
seventy  feet,  and  a  marble  parapet,  breast-high,  for  the 


1 54  Paris. 

safety  of  the  visitors  who  look  down  into  it,  —  such  is 
the  first  impression  of  the  interior. 

Not  only  do  the  people  invariably  look  down,  but 
they  generally  gaze  for  a  long  time,  as  if  they  expected 
something  to  occur;  yet  a  more  unchanging  spectacle 
could  not  be  imagined.  In  the  middle  there  is  a  great 
sarcophagus  of  polished  red  Russian  granite,  and  twelve 
colossal  statues  stand  under  the  parapet,  all  turning 
their  grave,  impassible  faces  towards  the  centre.  They 
are  twelve  Victories  whose  names  have  resounded 
through  the  world,  and  in  the  spaces  between  them 
are  sheaves  of  standards  taken  in  battle,  and  in  the  red 
sarcophagus  lies  the  body  of  Napoleon. 

The  idea  of  this  arrangement  is  due  to  the  architect 
Visconti,  who  had  to  solve  the  problem  how  to  arrange 
a  tomb  of  such  overwhelming  importance  without  hiding 
the  architecture  of  so  noble  an  interior  as  this.  His 
solution  was  admirably  successful.  The  arrangement 
does  not  interfere  in  the  slightest  degree  with  the  archi- 
tecture of  the  edifice,  which  would  have  been  half  hid- 
den by  a  colossal  tomb  on  its  own  floor ;  while  we  have 
only  to  look  over  the  parapet  to  be  impressed  with  the 
grandeur  and  the  poetic  suitableness  of  the  plan.  With 
our  customs  of  burial  we  are  all  in  the  habit  of  looking 
down  into  a  grave  before  it  is  filled  up,  and  the  impres- 
siveness  of  Napoleon's  tomb  is  greatly  enhanced  by  our 
downward  gaze.  We  feel  that,  notwithstanding  all  this 
magnificence,  we  are  still  looking  down  into  a  grave, — 
a  large  grave  with  a  sarcophagus  in  it  instead  of  a  coffin, 
but  a  grave  nevertheless.  The  serious  grandeur,  the 


The  Pantheon,  Invalides,  and  Madeleine.   155 

stately  order,  of  this  arrangement  seems  to  close  appro- 
priately the  most  extraordinary  career  in  history ;  and 
yet  it  is  impossible  to  look  upon  that  sarcophagus  with- 
out the  most  discouraging  reflections.  The  most  splen- 


THE    MADELEINE. 


did  tomb  in  Europe  is  the  tomb  of  the  most  selfish,  the 
most  culpably  ambitious,  the  most  cynically  unscrupu- 
lous of  men ;  and  the  sorrowful  reflection  is  that  if  he 
had  been  honorable,  unselfish,  unwilling  to  injure  others, 
he  would  have  died  in  comparative  or  in  total  obscurity, 


156  Paris. 

and  these  prodigious  posthumous  honors  would  never 
have  been  bestowed  upon  his  memory.1 

The  church  of  the  Magdalen  (Madeleine)  is  curiously 
connected  with  the  history  of  Napoleon  L,  who  had  the 
incompleted  edifice  continued  with  the  strange  intention 
of  dedicating  it  as  a  temple  to  the  memory  of  La  Grande 
Armee.  Every  year,  on  the  anniversaries  of  the  battles 
of  Austerlitz  and  Jena,  the  temple  was  to  have  been 
illuminated  and  a  discourse  delivered  concerning  the 
military  virtues,  with  an  eulogy  of  those  who  perished 
in  the  two  battles.  This  intention  was  never  carried 
out,  and  the  building,  which  had  been  begun  in  1764 
as  a  church,  was  finished  as  a  church  under  the  reign 
of  Louis-Philippe.  Nothing  could  apparently  be  more 
decided  in  architectural  intentions  than  the  Madeleine 
as  we  see  it  now.  It  seems  to  be  plainly  a  temple,  and 
never  to  have  been  intended  for  anything  else.  In 
reality,  however,  it  was  begun  under  Louis  XV.  as  a 
church,  resembling  what  is  now  the  Pantheon,  and  the 
change  of  plan  was  carried  into  effect  many  years  after 
the  works  had  been  actually  commenced.  It  is  not  by 
any  means  a  subject  of  regret  that  this  temple  should 
have  been  erected  in  Paris,  as  it  gives  many  students  of 
architecture  who  have  not  visited  the  south  of  Europe 
an  excellent  opportunity  for  feeling  what  an  antique 
temple  was  like,  to  a  degree  that  is  not  possible  with  no 

1  Some  fresh  example  of  his  baseness  is  constantly  cropping  up. 
During  the  last  visit  I  paid  to  the  Invalides,  in  May  this  year  (1883),  I 
could  not  help  thinking  all  the  time  about  that  letter  to  which  Napoleon 
forged  the  signature  of  Davoust,  and  for  publication  too,  as  narrated  not 
very  long  since  in  the  "  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes." 


The  Pantheon,  Invalides,  and  Madeleine.  157 

more  powerful  teachers  than  photographs  or  small 
models.  Viollet-le-Duc  said  that  it  was  barbarous  to 
build  the  copy  of  a  Greek  temple  in  Paris  or  London, 
or  among  the  mists  of  Edinburgh,  condemning  alike 
the  Madeleine  and  the  fragmentary  Scottish  copy  of 
the  Parthenon ;  but  surely  a  student  of  architecture, 
born  in  the  north,  would  visit  both  the  Scottish  Parthe- 
non and  the  Parisian  temple  with  great  interest,  simply 
because  they  show  him  columns  on  their  own  scale, 
real  columns  in  the  open  air.  We  are  so  accustomed 
to  Gothic  and  Renaissance  churches  that  a  temple  is 
an  acceptable  variety,  were  it  only  to  demonstrate,  by 
actual  comparison,  the  immense  superiority  of  more 
modern  forms  for  purposes  of  Christian  worship.  We 
ought  to  bear  in  mind,  however,  that  although  the 
Madeleine  resembles  a  Corinthian  temple  externally,  it 
has  not  the  surroundings  of  such  a  temple  and  is  not  as- 
sociated with  its  uses.  For  Christian  architecture,  on  the 
other  hand,  such  a  system  of  building  involves  a  great 
waste  of  money  and  space  in  the  colonnades  and  the 
passages  between  them  and  the  walled  building  or  cella. 
The  space  in  the  Madeleine,  already  so  restricted,  is 
limited  still  farther  by  internal  projections  intended  to 
divide  the  length  into  compartments  and  to  give  a  rea- 
son for  six  lateral  chapels,  so  that  every  one  who  enters 
it  for  the  first  time  is  surprised  by  the  smallness  of  the 
interior.  I  need  hardly  observe  that  there  is  not  the 
slightest  attempt  to  preserve  the  internal  arrangements 
of  a  Greek  temple,  even  if  they  were  precisely  known, 
on  which  architects  are  not  agreed.  The  side  chapels 


158  Paris. 

have  arches  over  them,  the  roof  is  vaulted  with  round 
arches  across  the  building,  springing  from  Corinthian 
columns,  and  in  each  section  is  a  dome-ceiling  with  a 
circular  light  (as  in  the  Pantheon  at  Rome),  these  lights 
being  the  only  windows  in  the  edifice.  The  high  altar 
is  in  a  round  apse  en  cul  de  four,  with  marble  panels 
and  a  hemicycle  of  columns  behind  the  altar.  There  is 
great  profusion  of  marbles  of  various  kinds,  of  gilding, 
and  of  mural  painting,  that  I  have  not  space  to  describe 
in  detail.  Enough  has  been  said  to  show  that  the  work, 
as  a  whole,  is  a  combination  of  Greek,  Roman,  and 
French  ideas.  The  general  idea  of  the  exterior  is 
Greek,  but  if  you  examine  details  you  see  the  influence 
of  Rome,  and  you  find  it  still  more  strongly  marked 
inside,  by  the  arches  of  the  roof.  The  French  spirit  is 
shown  in  the  decoration  chiefly,  which  is  so  truly  Pari- 
sian that  the  Madeleine  is  instinctively  preferred  by 
fashionable  people.  A  fashionable  marriage  there  is 
one  of  the  most  thoroughly  consistent  spectacles  to  be 
seen  in  modern  Paris.  Here  is  nothing  to  remind  us 
of  the  austerity  of  past  ages,  but  the  gilded  youth  of 
to-day  may  walk  along  soft  carpets,  amid  an  odor  of 
incense  and  flowers  and  the  sounds  of  mellifluous  music. 
The  pretty  ceremony  over,  they  pass  out  down  the  car- 
peted steps,  and  an  admiring  crowd  watches  them  into 
their  carriages.  And  nobody  thinks  about  the  dead  at 
Austerlitz  and  Jena ! 


IX. 

ST.   EUSTACHE,   ST.   ETIENNE   DU   MONT, 
AND   ST.   SULPICE. 

"\  TEXT  to  Notre  Dame,  St.  Eustache  is  the  largest 
•*•  ^  church  in  Paris,  and  the  difference  between  them 
is  much  more  marked  in  length  than  in  height  and 
breadth.  The  length  of  Notre  Dame  is  nearly  127 
metres,  that  of  St.  Eustache  only  88i ;  but  while  the 
breadth  of  Notre  Dame  is  48  metres,  that  of  St.  Eus- 
tache is  nearly  43  ;  and  the  difference  of  height  between 
the  two  edifices,  internally,  is  scarcely  more  than  one 
English  foot  in  favor  of  the  Cathedral.  Besides  their 
similarity  in  height  and  width,  the  two  churches  have 
an  important  feature  in  common,  —  their  double  aisles. 
In  short,  it  seems  as  if  the  builders  of  St.  Eustache  had 
in  their  minds  some  distinct  idea  of  rivalry  with  Notre 
Dame,  at  least  to  a  certain  degree. 

Before  the  present  church  of  St.  Eustache,  there 
existed  a  Gothic  edifice  that  was  not  half  so  long,  nor 
half  so  broad  either,  so  that  it  would  not  occupy  a  quar- 
ter of  the  area ;  and  if  its  height  was  proportionately 
small  (which  is  probable,  as  the  present  building  is 
very  lofty),  the  cubic  dimensions  of  the  old  church1 

1  There  had  been  another  church  still  earlier,  and  perhaps  a  still 
more  remotely  ancestral  edifice  than  that ;  but  of  these  we  know 
nothing. 


1 60  Paris. 

would  be  less  than  one  eighth  of  those  of  its  successor. 
It  is  evident,  therefore,  that  so  far  as  the  importance  of 
the  edifice  is  concerned  we  have  nothing  to  regret ;  and 
it  is  not  probable  that  the  Gothic  church  exceeded  the 
present  building  either  in  elegance  of  design  or  perfec- 
tion of  workmanship,  while  it  may  be  accepted  as  cer- 
tain that  it  could  not  have  been  so  interesting  to  the 
student  of  architecture  because  the  St.  Eustache  that 
we  know  is  a  valuable  experiment  on  a  scale  sufficiently 
imposing  for  it  to  be  really  decisive. 

The  interest  of  St.  Eustache  consists  in  this,  that  the 
designer,  whoever  he  may  have  been,  attempted  to 
combine  the  general  impressiveness  of  a  Gothic  edifice 
with  the  spirit  of  the  Renaissance  in  every  detail.  He 
must  have  admired  Gothic  architecture  in  a  certain 
fashion,  and  he  must  have  appreciated  its  influence  on 
the  mind,  yet  at  the  same  time  he  did  not  admire  it 
enough  to  follow  it  slavishly  in  anything.  Nobody 
knows  who  the  first  architect  was.  It  has  been  said 
that  his  name  was  David ;  and  there  was  a  Charles 
David  buried  in  the  church,  whose  epitaph  says  that 
he  was  architect  and  conductor  of  the  building  of  that 
church ;  but  he  must  have  been  a  successor  to  the  first 
architect,  as  the  first  stone  of  the  present  building  was 
laid  by  the  Provost  of  Paris  in  the  year  1532  (August 
1 9th),  while  Charles  David  was  born  in  1552.  It  is 
much  to  be  regretted  that  the  original  architect's  name 
should  have  lapsed  into  complete  oblivion,  as  he  was 
an  original  thinker  in  architecture  and  a  man  of  poetic 
imagination. 


St.  Eustache,  St.  Etienne,  and  St.  Sulpice.  1 6 1 

St.  Eustache  is  closely  connected,  chronologically, 
with  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  as  that  edifice  was  begun  just 
a  year  after  the  church.  It  has  been  supposed  that  the 
architect  of  St.  Eustache  must  have  been  the  architect 
of  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  or  else  one  of  his  pupils ;  but  this 
is  a  mere  supposition,  without  any  evidence  to  support 
it.  We  may  observe  that  although  both  edifices  are 
works  of  remarkable  merit,  their  merit  is  not  the  same. 
The  Hotel  de  Ville  is  simply  a  Renaissance  palace,  very 
beautiful,  but  not  attempting  to  solve  any  such  problem 
as  the  reconciliation  of  two  opposite  styles ;  while  the 
Church  of  St.  Eustache  is  from  beginning  to  end  a  sus- 
tained and  conscious  effort  to  unite  the  imposing  effect 
of  Gothic  with  the  delicacy  and  comparative  sobriety 
of  Renaissance  architecture.  The  result  is  a  hybrid  in 
which  every  visitor  who  knows  enough  about  architec- 
ture to  be  able  to  disentangle  two  opposite  elements  will 
find  ample  and  pleasurable  occupation. 

The  ground-plan  of  St.  Eustache  approaches  more 
nearly  to  that  of  Notre  Dame  than  would  be  believed 
from  the  outward  appearance  of  the  two  edifices.  At 
St.  Eustache  the  long  limb  of  the  cross  is  much  shorter 
in  proportion ;  but  you  have  the  same  four  lines  of 
columns,  or  piers,  the  same  round  apse  and  pour  tour, 
and  the  same  series  of  small  chapels  outside  the  double 
aisles.  In  both  edifices  the  transepts  only  reach  to  the 
external  walls  of  the  chapels. 

Other  features  that  the  two  buildings  have  in  com- 
mon are  flying  buttresses,  rose-windows  in  the  tran- 
septs, and  spires  at  the  intersection  of  the  roof.  That 


1 62  Paris. 

of  Notre  Dame  has  been  restored,  as  we  have  seen,  but 
the  spire  of  St.  Eustache  was  long  since  shortened  to 
make  a  platform  for  a  semaphore  telegraph,  and  has 
never  been  re-established. 

The  comparison  fails  most  decidedly  at  the  west  end. 
Everybody  knows  that  Notre  Dame  has  twin  towers 
and  a  great  west  front ;  but,  unfortunately,  of  the  twin 
towers  that  St.  Eustache  was  to  have  had  only  one  has 
been  built,  and  that  is  small  and  not  noteworthy.  Nor 
is  it  really  one  of  the  towers  intended  by  the  original 
architect.  It  is  an  invention  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
when  it  was  thought  necessary  to  erect  a  new  portail* 
which  included  a  complete  new  front.  The  unknown 
original  architect  had  built  a  west  front  completely  in 
harmony  with  the  rest  of  the  edifice ;  but  as  for  the 
towers,  he  had  only  carried  one  of  them  partly  towards 
the  height  of  the  first  detached  story,  while  the  other, 
though  prepared  for,  was  not  carried  high  enough  to 
detach  it  from  the  body  of  the  church.  Still,  though 
incomplete,  the  original  front  was  beautiful,  being  as 
elegant  in  its  severer  parts  as  the  rest  of  the  exterior ; 
while,  in  obedience  to  Gothic  precedent,  it  was  en- 
riched with  statues  on  the  buttresses  and  in  the  door- 
ways, and  with  other  decorative  sculpture,  which,  if  we 
may  judge  by  what  remains  elsewhere,  must  have  been 
of  the  most  delicate  and  refined  quality.  That  was 
in  the  time  of  the  elegant  Renaissance,  when  fancy  and 
invention  were  not  yet  excluded  from  architecture. 
Then  came  the  terrible  mechanical  period  in  the  eight- 
eenth century,  when  both  architects  and  the  public  per- 


CHURCH  OF  ST.  ETIENNE  DU  MONT.      FROM  SKETCH  BY  A.  BRUNET  DEBAINES. 


St.  Eustache,  St.  Etienne,  and  St.  Sulpice.  163 

suaded  themselves  that  graceful  fancy  was  too  light  an 
element  to  be  admitted  in  serious  art ;  and  it  happened 
unfortunately  that  the  west  front  of  St.  Eustache  was 
rebuilt  during  this  period,  without  the  slightest  con- 
sideration for  the  desire  of  the  original  architect  that 
the  church  should  be  a  combination  of  Gothic  with 
Renaissance  forms. 

The  new  portail  was  a  very  severe  and  very  dull 
arrangement  of  Roman  Doric  on  the  ground  story,  with 
Roman  Ionic  and  a  plain  pediment  above.  The  one 
tower  that  was  built  is  in  a  sort  of  Italian  Corinthian. 
In  order  that  the  pediment  might  not  appear  too  ab- 
surdly out  of  place,  the  lofty  old  gable  which  would 
have  appeared  above  it  was  cut  off  like  the  side  of  a 
pyramid  with  an  Italian  balustrade  at  its  base.  The 
general  result  is  a  huge  applique  that  no  more  belongs 
to  St.  Eustache  than  it  would  belong  to  the  Sainte 
Chapelle.  It  is  much  to  be  regretted  that  a  complete 
restoration  of  this  part  of  the  church  was  not  under- 
taken during  the  reign  of  Napoleon  III.,  when  it  might 
have  been  quietly  carried  into  effect.  At  the  same 
time  towers  might  have  been  built  in  the  spirit  of  the 
original  work.  It  is  now  too  late  to  dream  of  any  such 
expenditure  on  the  part  of  the  Government;  and  the 
priests  have  enough  on  their  hands  with  the  huge  mon- 
umental church  of  the  Sacred  Heart  on  Montmartre, 
which  absorbs  all  the  money  that  can  be  collected. 

It  is  interesting  to  observe  in  what  way  the  classical 
tastes  of  a  Renaissance  architect  modified  Gothic  forms. 
Greek  architecture,  though  elegant,  was  stiff  and  angu- 


1 64  Paris. 

lar;  Roman  architecture,  though  less  visibly  angular 
because  it  had  the  round  arch,  was  still  simple  and 
severe ;  but  Gothic  architecture  became  pliant  like  the 
branches  of  trees  and  lively  like  tongues  of  flame.  In 
St.  Eustache  the  Gothic  forms  are  stiffened  by  classical 
feeling.  The  tracery  of  the  windows  is  simplified  and 
monotonously  repeated  in  corresponding  parts  of  the 
church.  This  simplification  is  especially  visible  in  the 
rose-windows,  so  poor  and  angular  in  comparison  with 
true  Gothic.  Again,  in  the  spaces  over  the  doors,  in- 
stead of  the  richly  inventive  sculpture  of  the  Gothic 
tympanum,  with  its  elaborate  story  of  the  Fall  of  Man 
or  the  Last  Judgment,  the  Renaissance  architect  has 
introduced  hexagonal  tracery  almost  like  the  cells  of  a 
honeycomb.  Even  in  the  large  pilasters  with  Corin- 
thian capitals  the  half-column  becomes  an  elongated 
panel  with  a  triangle  at  the  top,  and  another  triangle 
at  the  bottom,  pointing  towards  each  other.  For  the 
intricately  curved  iron-work  on  Gothic  doors  we  have 
plain  oblong  panels  giving  sixteen  right  angles  to  each 
door.  In  a  frieze  running  above  the  lowest  windows 
triglyphs  are  introduced,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  orna- 
mentation is  so  angular  that  they  do  not  seem  out  of 
place.  With  its  exceedingly  perfect  finish,  and  its 
abundance  of  plain  little  details,  the  outside  of  St.  Eus- 
tache reminds  one  of  nothing  so  much  as  a  masterpiece 
of  serious  cabinet-making.  And  the  wonder  is,  that 
although  the  style  is  a  jumble  of  reminiscences  from 
Greece,  Italy,  and  mediaeval  France,  not  one  of  them 
in  a  condition  approaching  to  purity,  the  whole  is  per- 


INTERIOR   OF   ST.    ETIENNE   DU    MONT. 


St.  Eustache,  St.  Etienne,  and  St.  Sulpice.  165 

fectly  harmonious.  The  reason  is  that  every  borrowed 
idea  has  been  so  modified  as  to  combine  with  every 
other. 

The  interior  has  one  transcendent  merit,  and  several 
obvious  defects.  The  merit  is  an  overpowering  sub- 
limity due  to  the  expression  of  height  which  again  is  in 
great  part  the  result  of  the  narrow  space  between  the 
columns,  or  piers,  and  the  elevation  of  the  point  at 
which  the  arches  spring.  It  is  like  being  at  the  bottom 
of  a  deep  and  narrow  ravine  and  seeing  it  spanned  by 
a  little  stone  bridge  far  up  above  our  heads.  The  im- 
pression of  loftiness  is  also  greatly  aided  by  the  unusual 
height  of  the  aisles. 

Unfortunately,  the  narrowness  of  the  space  between 
the  piers,  and  the  comparative  massiveness  of  the  piers 
themselves,  have  the  bad  effect,  sometimes  met  with  in 
Gothic  churches,  of  impeding  the  view  diagonally.  So 
long  as  you  are  in  the  large  open  space  of  the  nave  it  is 
well,  because  that  space  is  open  enough  to  prevent  any 
sense  of  confinement ;  but  though  the  aisles  are  very 
lofty  they  convey  the  feeling  of  narrow  passages,  be- 
cause the  successive  piers  of  masonry  are  joined  to- 
gether in  perspective  exactly  as  if  they  were  walls,  and 
you  only  get  a  glimpse  through  the  opening  which  is 
nearest  you.  Some  readers  may  remember  the  remark- 
able difference  in  this  respect  between  the  Cathedral  at 
Rouen  and  the  well-known  Church  of  St.  Ouen  in  the 
same  city.  The  Church  of  St.  Ouen  is  much  more  open, 
which  gives  more  spacious  perspectives,  and  may  be 
one  of  the  reasons  why  it  is  so  generally  preferred  to  the 


1 66  Paris. 

Cathedral,  in  spite  of  some  architectural  authority  on 
the  other  side. 

There  is  one  notable  advantage  in  the  mixed  style 
of  St.  Ettstache.  It  is  near  enough  to  classic  architec- 
ture to  admit  without  incongruity  both  learned  figure- 
sculpture  and  learned  modern  painting,  so  that  there  is 
no  necessity  for  archaic  forms  in  either.  It  is  probably 
for  this  reason  that  St.  Eustache  seems  more  happily 
and  suitably  decorated  than  most  other  churches. 

On  the  whole,  we  must  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
the  interesting  experiment  of  combining  Gothic  effects 
with  classical  details  and  finish  could  not  have  been 
made  more  intelligently  than  here.  It  is  not  at  all  an 
unreasoned  decadence  of  Gothic ;  it  is  a  combination  at 
once  logical  and  imaginative.  The  unknown  architect 
was  an  artist,  and  a  great  artist;  he  could  rise  to  the 
sublime,  and  enjoy  the  exercise  of  a  delicate  and  dis- 
criminating taste.  Yet  in  spite  of  his  rare  powers  of 
combination  he  founded  nothing.  The  style  of  St.  Eus- 
tache might  have  become  the  modern  style,  but  it  did 
not.  In  the  eighteenth  century  men  fell  into  that  heavy 
style  of  pseudo-classical  architecture  founded  on  de- 
based Italian  precedent,  which  mistook  dulness  for  dig- 
nity, and  of  which  we  have  a  striking  example  in  the 
west  front  of  St.  Eustache  itself.  In  the  nineteenth, 
ecclesiastical  architecture  in  Paris  has  gone  in  two  direc- 
tions,—  either  towards  a  revival  of  past  styles,  as  in  the 
meagre  Gothic  Church  of  St.  Clotilde,  the  Gothic  Church 
of  St.  Bernard  (Rue  d'Alger)  and  others,  the  Roman- 
esque St.  Ambroise  (Boulevard  Voltaire),  and  St.  Pierre 


St.  Euslache,  St.  Etienne,  and  St.  Sulpice.  167 

de  Montrouge ;  or  else  towards  the  invention  of  a  thor- 
oughly modern  style,  as  in  St.  Augustin,  the  Trinity, 
and  St.  Frangois  Xavier.  It  is  useless  to  indulge  in 
unavailing  regret,  and  it  may  have  been  necessary  to 
the  full  understanding  of  Gothic  by  the  architects  of 
our  time  that  many  of  them  should  pass  through  that 
wretched  state  of  probation  known  by  its  fruits  in  miser- 
able pseudo-Gothic ;  yet  it  seems  as  if,  in  St.  Eustache, 
they  had  a  compromise  between  modern  finish  and 
Gothic  invention  which  might  have  suited  modern  capa- 
bilities, and  at  the  same  time  have  harmonized  with  the 
development  of  other  arts. 

The  Church  of  St.  Etienne  du  Mont  (near  the  Pan- 
theon) is  not,  like  St.  Eustache,  an  example  of  the  com- 
plete fusion  of  the  Gothic  and  Renaissance  ideas ;  it  is 
an  example  of  Gothic  in  its  decadence,  strongly  influ- 
enced by  Renaissance,  and  finally  lost  in  the  new  style 
from  which  every  trace  of  Gothic  is  eliminated.  There 
is,  consequently,  in  St.  Etienne  nothing  of  that  strong 
and  peculiar  artistic  interest  that  belongs  to  the  remark- 
able edifice  we  have  just  been  describing.  St.  Eustache 
stands  alone,  but  there  are  many  churches  in  which  a 
debased  Gothic  is  clung  to  with  hesitation,  and  at  length 
abandoned,  in  some  important  part,  for  the  style  that 
had  come  into  fashion.  Still,  very  few  of  these  churches 
can  be  compared  to  St.  Etienne  for  a  certain  romantic 
charm.  Only  the  most  severe  and  intolerant  purists  in 
Gothic  would  quarrel  with  a  decadence  like  this,  in 
which,  if  a  great  art  is  dying,  it  dies  like  the  last 
cadences  of  music,  leaving  only  a  regret  for  the  end  of 


1 68  Paris. 

inspiring  or  sweet  emotions.  You  may  build  a  church 
entirely  according  to  rule,  you  may  copy  in  all  its  de- 
tails the  best  art  of  the  best  time,  yet  not  succeed  in 
awakening  any  feeling  beyond  a  cold  approval,  of  your 
accuracy.  In  St.  Etienne  there  are  many  deviations 
from  precedent,  many  things  that  are  theoretically  diffi- 
cult to  defend ;  but  the  building  is  a  poem,  the  archi- 
tect was  an  artist  who  had  feeling  and  imagination,  and 
this  small  interior  impresses  the  mind  more  powerfully 
than  many  that  are  far  vaster  and  incomparably  more 
costly. 

We  have  seen  that  in  St  Eustache  the  view  is  diago- 
nally blocked  by  the  nearness  and  thickness  of  the  piers. 
In  St.  Etienne  this  fault  is  happily  avoided.  The  archi- 
tecture is  everywhere  open  and  penetrable,  and  the 
intersections  are  delightful,  especially  because  you  are 
always  sure  to  have  painted  windows  in  the  background. 
The  clerestory  is  proportionately  low,  being  only  the 
height  of  the  arch  in  the  groined  vault  itself;  and  con- 
sequently the  pillars  would  have  appeared  too  high  had 
they  not  been  united,  at  nearly  half  their  height,  by  a 
gallery  on  arches,  which  is  one  of  the  original  features 
of  the  church.  This  gallery,  which  (though  otherwise 
placed)  answers  to  the  triforium  in  pure  Gothic  edi- 
fices, is  exceedingly  light,  with  open  balustrades,  and  it 
has  afforded  an  excuse  for  the  elegant  staircases  that 
wind  round  the  columns  on  each  side  the  beautiful 
rood-screen,  and  belong  to  it,  not  only  by  their  design, 
but  also  as  parts  of  the  same  beautiful  and  elaborate 
composition. 


WEST   FRONT   OF   ST.    ETIENNE  DU    MONT. 


•SV.  Euslache,  St.  Etienne,  and  St.  Sulpice.  1 69 

The  great  charm  of  St.  Etienne  is  the  beauty  and 
variety  of  the  accidental  views  in  it.  There  is  in  every 
church  the  great  view  down  the  nave,  and  if  that  is  not 
successful  we  say  the  building  is  a  failure ;  but  besides 
this  supremely  important  aspect  of  the  building,  there 
is,  or  there  is  not,  the  quality  of  revealing  unexpected 
beauties.  Some  churches  are  very  remarkable  for  the 
possession  of  this  quality,  —  they  even  possess  it  to  a 
degree  that  the  architect  himself  may  possibly  not  have 
foreseen;  others  are  absolutely  destitute  of  it.  There 
is  no  trace  of  it  in  the  Madeleine.  When  you  have 
been  in  the  Madeleine  a  quarter  of  an  hour  you  have 
nothing  more  to  discover  as  to  the  possibilities  of  its 
architecture,  and  for  any  new  interest  you  must  turn  to 
the  decorative  details  added  by  the  sculptor  and  the 
painter.  On  the  other  hand,  there  are  many  little-known 
churches  —  such  as  that  at  Dreux,  for  example  —  of 
which  the  charm  consists  in  lovely  combinations,  that 
seem  entirely  accidental,  and  which  a  painter  would 
immediately  select  in  preference  to  the  long,  formal  view 
down  the  nave.  The  best  places  for  rinding  these  are 
near  the  intersections  of  the  nave  and  transepts,  and  in 
the  pourtour  round  the  apse,  when  happily  there  is  one. 
In  St.  Etienne  du  Mont  all  the  necessary  conditions  for 
producing  happy  accidental  combinations  exist  in  the 
utmost  perfection.  The  view  is  never  blocked  up,  and 
there  is  always  a  rich  mystery  of  painted  glass  at  the 
end  of  it,  relieving  the  cool  color  of  the  stone.  The 
prettiest  of  these  minor  views  are  those  from  the  aisles 
looking  across  the  transepts  and  towards  the  apse, 


1 7O  Paris. 

because  there  you  get  the  extremely  elegant  work  of 
the  rood-screen,  which  is  continued  across  the  aisles, 
leaving  a  passage  through  beautiful  doorways  under  the 
prettiest  little  pediments  imaginable,  surrounded  with 
fanciful  and  delicate  sculpture  in  the  charming  taste  of 
the  refined  Renaissance. 

The  west  front  of  St.  Etienne  is  very  well  known  from 
photographs.  It  is  a  curious  composition,  not  defensi- 
ble, logically,  yet  picturesque  and  elegant  in  the  total 
result.  First  you  have  a  pediment  supported  on  four 
imbedded  columns  of  a  debased  Corinthian,  with  an  arch 
above  the  tympanum  over  a  square-headed  door.  Above 
the  apex  of  the  pediment  oddly  comes  a  rose-window, 
much  nearer  to  pure  Gothic  than  those  in  St.  Eustache, 
and  over  the  rose-window  a  fronton  in  the  segment  of  a 
circle  like  those  which  alternate  with  pediments  on  the 
river-front  of  the  Louvre.  To  crown  all,  we  have  a 
highly  pitched  gable,  essentially  Gothic  in  principle,  but 
with  Renaissance  ornament.  The  tower  is  narrow  and 
elegant,  and  the  composition  of  the  front  is  happily 
aided  by  a  little  turret  with  pepper-box  roof  low  down 
to  the  left.  To  a  taste  educated  in  the  severe  tradition 
either  of  Greek  or  of  pure  Gothic  such  a  combination 
as  this  must  seem  indefensible,  yet  it  is  at  the  same  time 
elegant  and  picturesque.  It  may  be  proved,  by  reason- 
ing, to  be  incongruous ;  and  yet  there  is  so  much  good 
management  in  the  proportioning  of  the  parts  and  the 
finish  of  the  details  that  it  is  impossible  to  turn  away 
from  such  a  work  without  a  tormenting  desire  to  look 
at  it  afjain. 


THE   CHURCH   OF   ST.    SULPICE. 


St.  Eustache,  St.  Etienne,  and  St.  Sulpice.  171 

The  Church  of  St.  Sulpice  is  very  imposing  from  its 
dimensions  and  the  sober  massiveness  of  its  construc- 
tion, but  it  has  none  of  the  charm  which  belongs  to  the 
two  edifices  we  have  just  been  studying.  The  front  is 
composed  of  two  stories  that  include  the  lower  parts  of 
the  towers,  and  between  the  towers  an  open  portico  with 
a  loggia  above.  The  architect  employed  two  orders  in 
the  front,  —  Italian  Doric  in  the  lower  story  and  Italian 
Ionic  in  the  loggia.  Corinthian  is  freely  employed  in 
the  northern  tower,  and  a  sort  of  Corinthian  also  in  the 
other,  which  has  never  been  externally  finished,  though 
it  has  attained  its  full  height.  A  common  criticism  of 
this  front  is  that  it  does  not  answer  in  any  special  man- 
ner to  the  interior  of  the  church,  of  which  it  explains 
nothing.  It  is,  in  fact,  only  a  gigantic  screen  giving  the 
church  a  sort  of  adventitious  importance.  Architecture 
of  this  kind  may  excite  admiration  by  majesty  and 
grandeur,  but,  unlike  the  work  of  the  elegant  Renais- 
sance, it  can  never  charm  or  delight.  It  is  the  archi- 
tecture of  pride  and  power ;  it  is  not  the  architecture  of 
inventive  affection. 

The  rest  of  St.  Sulpice  externally  is  heavy,  substantial, 
and  dull.  It  is,  I  believe,  a  most  respectable  piece  of 
building  and  likely  to  be  very  durable,  but  it  seems  des- 
titute of  fancy  and  imagination.  The  interior  has  round 
arches  springing  from  massive  piers  against  each  of 
which  is  a  Corinthian  pilaster,  and  the  roof  is  simply 
vaulted  with  a  large  arch  springing  from  the  walls  pierced 
with  lower  vaults  for  the  clerestory  windows.  The  effect 
is  serious  without  any  of  the  lightness  and  grace  that 


172  Paris. 

characterize  the  Pantheon.  Much  of  the  effect  of  St. 
Sulpice  is  due  to  its  great  size.  The  measures  given  by 
different  authorities  are  not  precisely  alike;  but  it  ap^ 
pears  from  them  that  the  Church  of  St.  Sulpice  is  longer 
and  broader  than  Notre  Dame,  and  very  nearly  as  lofty 
in  the  interior.  The  towers  of  St.  Sulpice  are  higher  by 
two  metres  than  those  of  the  metropolitan  Cathedral, 
which  they  resemble  in  this,  that  they  were  to  have  had 
spires,  or  some  kind  of  superstructure  that  was  never 
added  for  fear  of  insecurity. 

The  greatest  artistic  attraction  in  St.  Sulpice  is  the 
chapel  of  the  Holy  Angels,  with  three  large  mural 
paintings  by  Eugene  Delacroix.  He  painted  these  on 
the  wall  itself,  which  he  primed  in  white  lead  with  his 
own  hand.  They  were  finished  in  June,  1861,  and  Dela- 
croix admitted  people  to  see  the  chapel  by  circular 
before  it  was  open  to  the  general  public.  He  was  anx- 
ious about  the  effect  on  the  art  world,  and  rather  disap- 
pointed, as  M.  Charles  Blanc  and  others  were  decidedly 
cool,  and  the  press  was  much  divided  in  opinion.  Since 
then  Delacroix  is  better  understood,  and  we  are  not 
so  much  disconcerted  by  his  violent  action  and  strong 
coloring.  The  subjects  on  the  walls  are  Heliodorus 
beaten  and  Jacob  wrestling,  while  that  on  the  ceiling  is 
a  Saint  Michael  triumphing  over  Lucifer.  I  have  not 
space  for  any  adequate  criticism  of  these  works,  but 
may  say  that  the  subjects  suited  the  artist's  genius 
exactly,  and  that  he  did  himself  justice.  Whether  art 
of  that  character,  which  is  entirely  wanting  in  repose,  is 
suitable  to  mural  painting,  is  another  question.  I  think 


.6Y.  Eustache,  St.  Etienne,  and  St.  Sulpice.  173 

it  is  not.  I  believe  that  if  the  calm  stability  of  architec- 
ture is  to  be  happily  accompanied  by  painting,  the  pic- 
torial accompaniment  should  neither  be  too  active  nor 
too  loud.  It  ought  to  be  serene,  calm,  majestic,  and 
severely  conventional.  In  a  movable  picture  the  artist 
may  display  as  much  fire  and  impetuosity  as  he  pleases ; 
if  the  owner  afterwards  hangs  the  work  in  a  wrong  place 
it  is  not  the  artist's  mistake,  and  it  is  easily  remedied : 
but  mural  painting  becomes  a  fixed  part  of  the  edifice, 
and  the  feverish  energy  of  Delacroix  seems  out  of  har- 
mony with  the  stately  and  massive  architecture  of  St. 
Sulpice. 


X. 

PARKS  AND   GARDENS. 

HPHE  parks  of  London  are  so  magnificent,  so  far 
superior  to  those  of  any  other  capital,  that  we 
Englishmen  are  naturally  exposed  to  the  mistake  of 
measuring  all  other  town  parks  by  that  standard,  and 
then  despising  them  accordingly.  I  say  "  mistake," 
because  it  is  clearly  an  error  to  compare  anything 
with  a  quite  exceptional  example  of  its  kind.  A  man 
may  be  an  admirable  swimmer  without  being  in  any 
way  comparable  to  the  wonderful  man  who  threw 
away  his  life  at  Niagara;  a  church  may  be  a  noble 
and  interesting  building  without  being  half  so  large 
as  the  enormous  cathedral  at  Rome ;  and  a  town  park 
may  be  infinitely  precious  to  the  inhabitants  of  a  great 
city,  though  it  would  look  small  on  the  banks  of  the 
Serpentine.  A  Londoner  can  never  judge  of  town 
parks  with  any  fairness  if  he  is  constantly  thinking 
of  his  own.  The  right  way  to  estimate  such  posses- 
sions is  not  the  comparative,  when  comparison  can 
lead  to  no  result.  If  you  wish  to  buy  a  book  it  is 
well  for  you  to  be  told  that  there  is  a  better  and 
bigger  work  on  the  same  subject,  as  perhaps  you  can 
afford  to  get  it;  but  the  Parisians  cannot  have  Hyde 


Parks  and  Gardens.  1 75 

Park.  They  have  their  own  places  of  recreation,  and, 
especially  during  the  last  thirty  years,  there  has  been 
a  laudable  desire  to  multiply  such  places,  and  make 
them  both  prettier  and  more  convenient ;  but  there  is 
no  attempt  to  rival  the  parks  of  London. 

Even  if  Parisian  town-councillors  had  been  disposed 
to  make  the  necessary  sacrifices,  such  parks  would 
have  been  impossible  in  a  city  enclosed  by  fortifica- 
tions. Let  us  remember  what  the  history  of  Paris 
has  always  been.  The  town  has  always  been  a  for- 
tress ;  ring  after  ring  of  military  wall  has  defended  and 
limited  it,  nor  was  an  old  ring  ever  demolished  until 
it  had  been  made  needless  by  the  larger  one  outside 
of  it.  In  the  cramped  interior  of  a  mediaeval  city 
the  nearest  approach  to  a  park  was  simply  a  private 
garden,  unless  when  land  was  enclosed,  as  it  was  within 
the  wall  of  Philip  Augustus,  as  a  provision  of  building- 
land  for  future  necessities.  Such  land  was  usually 
cultivated  for  profit  until  the  time  came  for  covering 
it  with  crowded  houses  and  narrow  streets.  Unfortu- 
nately, too,  it  invariably  happens  that  the  value  of  open 
spaces  is  never  strongly  felt  until  the  city  has  grown  to 
a  great  size  and  has  generally  covered  the  land  which 
would  have  been  most  convenient  for  a  park.  The 
existence  of  some  of  the  most  important  open  spaces 
in  such  cities  is  due  to  the  merest  chance.  Some  king 
or  queen  has  had  a  fancy  for  a  palace  or  a  garden  just 
outside  the  wall.  A  considerable  space  of  land  has 
been  enclosed  for  that  purpose,  and  so  protected  from 
miscellaneous  buildings.  Afterwards  the  old  wall  has 


176  Paris. 

been  removed  and  a  new  one  built  at  a  distance,  and 
then  the  land  happened  accidentally  to  find  itself  within 
the  city.  In  future  ages  royalty  prefers  some  other 
garden,  or  else  royalty  is  abolished,  and  then  the  open 
space  is  preserved  as  a  popular  recreation-ground. 
That  is  one  way  in  which  a  town  park  may  come 
into  existence ;  another  way  is  very  different  from 
that.  A  space  of  ground  may  be  out  of  the  way  for 
a  long  time,  and  so  irregular  as  to  be  inconvenient 
to  build  upon.  Afterwards,  as  the  town  spreads,  this 
piece  of  awkward  ground  is  surrounded  by  houses 
and  becomes  valuable.  Then  the  question  arises  how 
to  make  it  most  useful,  and  the  town  or  the  Govern- 
ment turns  it  into  a  sort  of  park  or  garden.  In  all  this 
there  is  very  little  real  planning  of  open  spaces  for  the 
best  advantage  of  the  public. 

There  was  a  time  when  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries  lay 
just  outside  the  wall  of  Paris,  the  enceinte  of  Charles  V. ; 
and  now  it  happens  exactly  in  the  same  way  that  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne  lies  just  outside  the  present  wall,  and 
if  a  new  belt  of  fortifications  is  made  at  some  future 
time,  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  will  be  within  the  city.  So 
the  space  of  land  occupied  by  the  park  of  the  Buttes 
Chaumont  lay  outside  of  the  fiscal  wall  erected  under 
Louis  XVI.,  but  it  was  afterwards  included  within  the 
fortifications  of  Thiers. 

A  short  general  account  of  the  open  spaces  of  Paris 
might  be  written  as  follows :  The  spaces  of  chief  im- 
portance within  the  present  walls  are  the  gardens  of 
the  Tuileries  and  Luxembourg,  the  Champs  Elysees, 


Parks  and  Gardens.  177 

the  Champ  de  Mars,  with  the  garden  of  the  Trocadero 
opposite  to  it  across  the  Pont  d'Jena,  the  Jardin  des 
Plantes,  the  Pare  Monceau,  and  that  of  the  Buttes 
Chaumont.  It  would  seem  out  of  place  to  mention 
the  cemeteries  here,  but  Parisian  cemeteries  are  really 
little  else  than  very  large,  well-kept  gardens  dedicated 
to  the  dead ;  and  they  are  constantly  visited  by  rela- 
tives and  friends,  so  that,  in  fact,  such  great  cemeteries 
as  those  of  Mont  Parnasse,  Montmartre,  and  especially 
Pere-la-Chaise,  are  places  at  least  of  retreat  from  the 
noise  of  the  city,  though  the  pleasure  to  be  found  in 
them  belongs  to  the  pleasures  of  melancholy.  Just 
outside  the  present  walls  we  have  the  Bois  de  Boulogne 
to  the  west  and  that  of  Vincennes  to  the  east.  Within 
the  town  there  are  now  a  considerable  number  of  small 
gardens,  with  seats  and  fountains,  besides  trees,  flowers, 
and  a  little  space  of  lawn.  These  little  gardens  are 
always  called  "  squares "  by  the  Parisians ;  they  have 
become  immensely  popular,  and  are  most  precious  to 
the  inhabitants  of  crowded  streets  at  a  distance  from 
the  Tuileries  or  the  Luxembourg. 

The  origin  of  the  Garden  of  the  Tuileries  is  as 
follows :  In  the  fourteenth  century  it  was  a  region 
of  market-gardens,  brick-kilns,  tile-kilns  (whence  the 
name),  lime  and  plaster  kilns,  and  potteries,  inter- 
spersed with  small  summer  residences  for  the  citizens, 
at  that  time  without  the  walls.  It  was  in  the  highest 
degree  improbable  that  such  a  region  would  be  cov- 
ered by  anything  better  than  a  labyrinth  of  narrow 
streets ;  but  it  so  happened  that  a  large  portion  of  the 


1 78  Paris. 

land  fell  into  the  hands  of  one  family,  called  Le  Gendre. 
about  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century,  which 
rendered  it  possible  to  make,  from  them,  an  impor- 
tant purchase  at  once.  The  Duchess  of  Angouleme, 
mother  of  Francis  I.,  lived  in  a  palace  then  existing, 
called  le  palais  des  Tottrnelles,  and  there  was  some 
horribly  bad  drainage  near  that  dwelling,  so  that  the 
most  evil  exhalations  from  a  great  mismanaged  sewer 
offended  the  royal  nostrils,  and  she  looked  out  for  a 
healthier  and  less  odoriferous  dwelling-place.  There 
was  a  villa  in  the  region  of  the  Tuileries  which  sufficed 
for  her  purpose,  and  her  son  procured  it  for  her,  with 
a  considerable  estate  of  ground  which  belonged  to 
the  family  of  Le  Gendre.  At  that  time  there  was 
not  the  slightest  intention  of  erecting  a  palace  there ; 
the  Duchess  simply  wanted  a  summer  residence  for 
health's  sake,  and  afterwards  she  lent  it  for  life  to  Jean 
Tierce] in  on  his  marriage.  He  was  maitre  d' hotel  to 
the  Dauphin. 

This  was  the  beginning,  and  the  reader  knows  already 
what  very  much  larger  projects  occupied  the  mind  of 
Catherine  de  Medicis,  who  wanted  an  important  palace, 
and  built  part  of  the  Tuileries,  which  she  hardly  ever 
used.  Her  palace  has  already  been  described ;  her 
garden  was  an  exceedingly  formal  affair,  so  that  a  map 
of  it  looks  like  the  map  of  an  ancient  Roman  city,  with 
alleys  always  crossing  each  other  at  right  angles.  It 
was  bounded  to  the  north  by  a  long  riding-school,  sit- 
uated where  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  is  now,  and  to  the  west 
by  a  bastion  close  to  the  present  Place  de  la  Concorde. 


Parks  and  Gardens.  1 79 

The  garden  of  Catherine  de  Medicis  was  in  its  perfec- 
tion in  the  latter  part  of  the  sixteenth  century,  but  it 
was  altered  to  conform  to  later  fashions.  A  century 
later  the  great  principle  of  the  right  angle  was  aban- 
doned, and  both  acute  and  obtuse  angles,  with  segments 
of  circles,  were  freely  employed  in  the  outlines  of  the 
beds,  while  their  internal  floral  decoration  was  in  flour- 
ishes of  unrestrained  curvature.  In  the  latter  half  of 
the  eighteenth  century  the  flower-beds  were  restricted 
to  a  limited  space  in  front  of  the  palace,  and  beyond 
this  were  trees  in  plantations  crossed  by  alleys  at  right 
angles.  This  arrangement  has  in  the  main  been  pre- 
served to  the  present  day,  except  that  the  flower-garden 
is  now  laid  out  differently ;  yet  even  here  there  is  some 
respect  for  the  old  plan  in  the  preservation  of  the  ba- 
sins and  in  the  outline  of  the  four  sections  westward 
of  the  great  basin.  The  sections  nearest  the  Louvre 
have  been  laid  out  afresh;  the  large  octagonal  basin 
near  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  remains  exactly  as  it  was 
a  hundred  years  ago.  Not  one  of  the  basins  dates  from 
the  original  garden  of  Catherine  de  Medicis. 

The  connection  of  cause  and  effect  has  seldom  been 
more  remarkable  than  in  this  instance.  A  bad  smell 
which  enters  the  palace  of  a  royal  lady  in  the  sixteenth 
century  is  the  reason  why  a  great  Republican  city  in 
the  nineteenth  has  a  garden  for  recreation  precisely  in 
the  most  convenient  place.  One  special  function  of 
royalty  in  France  appears  to  have  been  to  prepare 
pleasant  places  for  its  heirs  and  successors,  the  people. 
It  is  well  that  the  people  know  the  value  of  such  places. 


1 80  Paris. 

The  destruction  of  the  Tuileries  by  the  Communards 
was  an  exceptional  act  committed  by  a  small  minority 
in  an  hour  of  frenzied  exasperation;  the  French  peo- 
ple generally  are  fond  of  architecture  and  gardens,  and 
proud  to  possess  them.  The  garden  of  the  Tuileries  is 
likely  to  be  preserved  to  a  very  remote  future.  At  the 
present  time  it  may  be  described  as  a  sort  of  wood 
between  two  ornamental  spaces.  The  trees  in  the  wood 
(principally  horse-chestnut  and  lime  trees)  make  a  no- 
ble avenue  down  the  middle ;  but  the  ground  beneath 
them  is  a  desert  trodden  constantly  by  thousands,  so 
that  there  is  hardly  room  for.  a  single  blade  of  grass. 
At  the  east  end  of  the  garden  the  lawns  are  protected 
and  kept  in  great  perfection,  as  they  are  in  all  the  pub- 
lic gardens  of  Paris.  What  the  French  call  the  salles 
de  verdure  of  the  Tuileries  are,  with  their  statues  and 
the  massive  trees  beyond,  very  beautiful  examples  of 
the  classic  taste  in  gardening. 

When  the  lawns  are  only  protected  by  low  borders 
children  are  tolerated  upon  them.  The  garden  of  the 
Tuileries  is  the  earthly  paradise  of  Parisian  childhood ; 
and  for  any  person  of  mature  years  who  takes  pleasure 
in  watching  the  ways  of  children,  a  quiet  seat  there  is 
an  excellent  post  of  observation.  The  extreme  quick- 
ness and  mobility  of  the  French  nature,  and  especially 
of  the  Parisian  nature,  are  never  better  seen  than  in  the 
children  of  the  Tuileries.  The  wonder  is  that  children 
can  play  so  freely  and  happily  when  they  are  so  fash- 
ionably dressed ;  the  explanation  must  be,  that  as  they 
are  always  dressed  in  that  manner  when  out  of  doors 


Parks  and  Gardens. 


181 


they  live  in  a  state  of  unconsciousness  of  fine  clothes, 
which  would  be  impossible  in  the  country.  The  dress- 
ing of  children  is  carried  too  far  in  all  French  towns ; 
it  seems  as  if  they  were  little  dolls  for  milliners  to  try 
expensive  experiments  upon.  Any  person  who  takes 
an  interest  in  such  matters  has  only  to  go  and  listen  to 


GRANDE   ALLEE   DES   TUILERIES. 

a  band  on  a  sunny  afternoon,  when  he  will  see  a  num- 
ber of  over-dressed  little  beings  disporting  themselves, 
prettily  enough. 

The  great  defect  of  the  Tuileries  garden  is  the  un- 
interesting nature  of  the  ground  itself,  —  a  dead  level, 


1 82  Paris. 

enclosed  by  straight  lines.  The  terraces  are  an  excep- 
tion, though  they  also  are  straight,  and  seem  to  me 
wearisome;  but  this  is  merely  a  personal  impression, 
and  I  know  that  there  are  many  people  who  take 
a  mysterious  pleasure  in  walking  on  gravel  flat  as  a 
barrack-yard  between  two  monotonous  rows  of  trees. 
What  is  really  noble  and  remarkable  in  this  garden  is 
the  frequent  combination  of  sculpture  and  architecture 
with  foliage,  —  a  combination  that  never  loses  its  charm, 
as  the  severe  lines  of  stone  and  marble,  and  their  gray 
or  white  color,  excite  in  the  eye  a  longing  for  the  grace- 
ful masses  of  foliage  and  a  desire  for  the  priceless  re- 
freshment of  its  green.  It  is  curious  how  little  of  a  loss 
to  the  garden  has  been  the  destruction  of  the  palace. 
Its  removal  has  opened  the  magnificent  perspective  of 
Visconti's  Louvre,  which  is  quite  sufficiently  massive 
and  imposing  to  fill  up  a  distance  effectively.1 

The  most  complete  contrast  to  the  garden  of  the 
Tuileries  is  the  Pare  des  Buttes  Chaumont,  situated 

1  It  has  been  for  some  time  proposed  to  erect  a  new  palace  of  art  on  the 
site  of  the  Tuileries,  but  the  French  Parliament  has  hitherto  refused  to 
sanction  the  plan.  However,  a  Parisian  friend  tells  me  that  M.  Gamier, 
the  well-known  architect  of  the  Opera,  has  prepared  drawings  for  such 
an  edifice,  which  is  likely  to  be  erected  in  course  of  time.  There  is  evi- 
dently no  intention  of  joining  it  to  the  pavilions  de  Flore  and  de  Marsan, 
as  they  have  new  and  magnificent  fronts  where  such  a  juncture  would 
have  to  be  effected.  The  new  palace,  therefore,  will  probably  be  a  com- 
pletely isolated  building,  or  else  it  may  be  connected  with  the  pavilions 
by  a  light  open  screen  in  the  form  of  an  arcade.  Whatever  is  done,  it 
may  be  taken  as  certain  that,  with  the  present  accumulated  experience 
of  the  style,  any  modern  Parisian  architect  of  proved  ability  will  produce 
a  far  better  work  than  the  old  palace  of  the  Tuileries  ultimately  became, 
and  one  much  more  in  accordance  with  the  buildings  erected  by  Visconti, 
henceforth  inevitably  dominant  over  the  whole  edifice. 


Parks  and  Gardens. 


183 


In  a  place  that  seems  quite  out  of  the  way  of  visitors, 
though  great  numbers  of  them  go  there.  It  is  near 
the  northeastern  corner  of  Paris,  between  the  Boulevard 
de  la  Villette  and  the  fortifications.  There  is  a  natural 
hill  belonging  to  the  high  ground  of  Belleville,  and  this 
hill  was  partly  cut  up  into  quarries,  chiefly  plaster  quar- 
ries, which  left  a  broken  and  precipitous  appearance, 


i?""/*ij 


LAC   DES   BUTTES   CHAUMONT. 


suggestive  of  great  possibilities  to  the  enterprise  of  a 
modern  landscape-gardener.  When  this  part  of  the 
city  was  laid  out  afresh  in  the  year  1866,  it  was  deter- 
mined to  reserve  the  roughest  and  most  hilly  portion 
of  the  ground  as  a  pleasure-ground,  greatly  needed  by 
that  populous  and  unfashionable  quarter.  It  is  not  very 
•extensive,  only  sixty-one  English  acres ;  and  this  want 


1 84  Paris. 

of  size  is  a  serious  defect,  because  one  sees  the  sur- 
rounding houses  too  closely  and  too  easily  for  the  illu- 
sion of  wild  scenery  to  be  possible;  but  it  is  very 
amusing  and  interesting  to  see  with  what  extreme  inge- 
nuity the  clever  gardeners  have  made  the  most  of  their 
opportunity.  By  the  help  of  a  little  willingness  to  be 
deluded,  the  visitor  may  imagine  himself  to  be,  —  not  in 
Scotland  or  Wales  certainly,  nor  indeed  in  wild  natural 
scenery  anywhere,  but  in  some  picturesque  park  in 
Derbyshire ;  and  to  get  so  much  of  Nature  as  that  is  a 
great  thing  indeed  in  Paris.  There  is  a  pond,  of  course ; 
but  this  pond  excels  most  others  in  the  possession  of  a 
precipitous  rocky  island,  approached  by  a  suspension- 
bridge  from  one  shore,  and  by  a  lofty  arch  from  another, 
and  on  the  top  of  the  island  is  a  copy  of  the  little  tem- 
ple of  Vesta  at  Tivoli.  Besides  this,  the  land  in  the 
park  rises  to  a  considerable  height  in  a  steep  green  hill 
of  pleasant  shape  with  a  wooded  crown,  and  a  rivulet 
makes  music  as  it  flows  and  falls  happily  from  the  wood 
to  the  lake.  The  water,  no  doubt,  is  real  water,  and  the 
stones  that  it  flows  over  are  real  stones,  though  placed 
there  by  human  labor;  neither  is  there  any  deception 
about  the  aquatic  plants  that  grow  gayly  by  its  margin ; 
but  how  comes  the  rivulet  there?  What  is  "The 
Stream's  Secret "  ?  Alas,  for  poetry !  The  secret  in 
this  case  is  a  steadily  toiling  steam-engine  on  the  banks 
of  St.  Martin's  Canal,  which  persuades  the  water  to  go 
up  the  hill  in  a  pipe,  that  it  may  come  down  again  as 
we  see.  And  now  that  I  have  told  the  stream's  secret 
I  will  go  yet  a  little  further  and  tell  mine,  which  is  that 


Parks  and  Gardens.  185 

the  poor  little  imitation  rivulet  seems  to  me  distinctly 
and  decidedly  the  pleasantest  thing  in  Paris. 

The  park  possesses  a  cave,  which  is  impressive  from 
its  height,  but  wanting  in  the  obscure  depth  of  the 
great  caverns,  which  inspires  one  with  a  sort  of  vague 
apprehension;  and  in  the  cave  is  another  purling  rivu- 
let, so  that  the  place  is  a  paradise  of  shade  and  coolness 
in  the  sultry  Parisian  summer.  From  the  temple,  and 
also  from  several  different  places  on  the  higher  ground 
of  the  park,  the  views  of  Paris  are  very  extensive ;  but 
they  do  not  answer  in  all  respects  to  its  great  reputa- 
tion for  beauty.  It  is  true  that  in  the  remote  distance 
you  have  hazy  visions  of  towers  and  domes,  and,  as  in 
all  such  city  views,  the  sublimity  of  what  seems  an 
infinite  world  of  houses;  but  you  have  also,  in  close 
proximity  to  the  park  itself,  a  region  studded  with  long 
•chimneys  belonging  to  works  of  various  kinds,  and 
bearing  a  very  close  resemblance  —  I  will  not  say  to 
Liverpool  or  Manchester,  for  that  would  be  an  exag- 
geration—  but  at  any  rate  to  one  of  our  minor  manu- 
facturing towns.  The  number  of  long  chimneys  in  or 
near  Paris  has  increased  during  recent  years.  Industry 
has  made  more  visible  progress  than  art,  and  there 
is  some  ground  for  the  apprehension  that  in  course 
of  time  the  French  capital  may  lose  her  beauty  from 
this  cause.  The  long  chimneys  interfere,  even  now, 
with  the  beauty  of  distant  views.  From  the  parapet 
near  the  Passy  stairs  I  counted  sixty-three  of  them  this 
year,  looking  down  the  Seine  and  a  little  to  the  left. 
To  a  visitor  from  the  north  of  England  they  are  a 


1 86 


Paris. 


reminder  of  home ;  but  as  English  chimneys  are 
equally  tall,  and  emit  smoke  not  less  abundantly, 
why  travel  so  far  southward  to  see  others  of  the  same 
kind?  The  French  are  rather  proud  of  them;  their 
artists  paint  them  in  big  pictures  of  the  Seine,  their  in- 
dustriels  have  them  engraved  for  their  advertisements. 


AVENUE   DBS   CHAMPS   ELYSEES. 

Of  recent  improvements  in  Paris,  there  is  nothing 
prettier  or  more  needed  than  the  garden  on  the  slope 
between  the  Palace  of  the  Trocadero  and  the  river.  It 
has  been  extended  by  another  garden  on  the  opposite 
bank  of  the  Seine,  taken  from  the  Champ  de  Mars,  and 
which  now  seems  a  continuation  of  the  Trocadero 
Garden  joined  by  the  Pont  d'Jena.  The  Champ  de 
Mars  now  ends  in  a  sort  of  terrace  with  a  balustrade  \ 


Parks  and  Gardens.  187 

and  on  a  fine  starlight  night  a  visitor  can  hardly  spend 
an  hour  in  a  manner  more  likely  to  be  remembered 
afterwards  than  in  quietly  leaning  on  that  balustrade, 
and  giving  himself  up  to  the  influences  of  the  strange 
and  wonderful  scene.  Behind  him  is  the  vast,  open, 
desert  space  of  the  Champ  de  Mars,  silent  and  empty 
as  so  much  land  in  the  Sahara,  and  yet  which  has  been 
the  theatre  of  so  many  historical  spectacles.  There  is 
no  place  in  the  world  where  the  contrast  between  past 
and  present — between  many  different  pasts  and  the 
one  monotonous  present  —  is  so  striking  and  decided. 
No  place  in  the  world  presents  such  a  perfect  tabula 
rasa,  unless  it  be  some  area  of  salt  water  where  fleets 
have  fought  and  tempests  raged,  and  where  to-day  no 
sound  or  motion  disturbs  the  summer  calm.  The  gar- 
den of  the  Tuileries  was  the  chief  scene  of  the  Festi- 
val of  the  Supreme  Being  when  Robespierre  made  a 
speech  full  of  piety  and  virtue,  and  burnt  the  effigies  of 
Atheism,  Ambition,  Self-seeking,  and  False  Simplicity. 
Yet  that  memorable  festival  was  also  celebrated  on  the 
Champ  de  Mars;  and  on  the  next  great  occasion, 
the  Festival  of  Federation,  the  whole  ceremony  took 
place  there  in  the  presence  of  three  hundred  thousand 
spectators,  who  stood  upon  embankments  laboriously 
raised  on  purpose.  Stood  !  nay,  they  sang  and  danced, 
in  an  ebullition  of  patriotic  happiness.  There  was  an 
altar  in  the  middle,  —  autel  de  la  patrie  ;  and  there  was 
a  throne  near  the  military  school,  whereon  sat  poor 
Louis  XVI.,  whose  head  still  preserved  its  connection 
with  his  body.  Talleyrand  said  mass,  Lafayette  rode 


1 88 


Paris. 


about  on  a  white  horse.  There  was  a  great  deal  of 
solemn  taking  of  oaths,  in  which  the  King  and  the 
President  of  the  Assembly  took  part.  After  this,  we 
learn  that  the  fe'derfc,  while  they  stayed  in  Paris,  dis- 
played a  sincere  enthusiasm  for  the  king,  the  queen, 
the  little  dauphin,  the  constitution,  and  the  Assembly. 


AU  JARDIN   DU   LUXEMBOURG. 

In  1815  the  desert  of  the  Champ  de  Mars  was  covered 
with  another  crowd;  there  was  an  altar  once  again, 
with  an  officiating  prelate,  and  a  throne  with  another 
sovereign.  It  was  now  the  Champ  de  Mai,  though  the 
ceremony  took  place  on  the  1st  of  June,  —  that  fateful 
month  which  was  to  contain  the  date  of  Waterloo. 


Parks  and  Gardens.  189 

Napoleon  came  in  coronation  state,  with  a  silken  coat, 
a  feathered  cap,  and  the  imperial  mantle,  in  a  state 
coach  drawn  by  eight  horses.  Like  Louis  XVI.,  he, 
too,  sat  upon  a  throne,  and  received  homage,  and 
gazed  over  an  ocean  of  human  beings.  Thiers  says 
that  almost  the  whole  population  of  Paris  was  in  the 
Champ  de  Mars  that  day ;  and  it  is  certain  that  there 
were  fifty  thousand  soldiers  and  a  hundred  pieces  of 
artillery.  It  was  the  last  imperial  ceremony  of  the 
First  Empire.  When  Napoleon  laid  aside  the  imperial 
mantle  that  day,  as  he  left  the  throne  to  distribute 
colors,  he  had  done  forever  with  imperial  state.  Noth- 
ing remained  for  him  but  a  fortnight  of  rough  life  as  a 
soldier,  to  be  followed  by  a  crushing  defeat,  a  wretched 
exile,  and  a  miserable  death. 

There  has  been  no  public  ceremony  in  more  recent 
times  so  memorable  as  the  Champ  de  Mai,  but  many  of 
us  remember  the  military  reviews  of  the  Second  Em- 
pire, which  were  very  striking  spectacles  of  their  kind ; 
and  then  came  the  great  exhibitions  with  their  enor- 
mous buildings,  which  have  vanished  like  enchanted 
palaces  in  fairy  tales.  Changes  which  in  other  parts  of 
Paris  have  required  centuries  are  effected  in  a  year  or 
two  on  the  Champ  de  Mars.  Its  permanent  condition 
is  that  of  perfect  emptiness  and  aridity,  but  occasionally 
it  is  the  scene  of  wonderful  concentrations  of  humanity. 
The  exhibition  of  1867  is  like  a  page  of  ancient  history 
already.  How  remote  it  seems !  I  remember,  as  if  it 
were  yesterday,  the  Emperor  arriving  on  the  opening 
day,  accompanied  by  his  wife  and  child,  and  looking 


1 90  Paris. 

neither  well  nor  happy.  Coming  events  were  already 
casting  their  shadows.  A  German  waiter  calmly  told 
me  that  there  would  soon  be  a  war  between  France 
and  Prussia,  and  he  looked  forward  to  the  result  with 
confidence.  The  Empire  was  already  tottering,  nobody 
counted  upon  its  long  continuance.  When  the  next 
great  exhibition  palace  had  been  erected  in  1878  the 
object  of  the  display  was  a  revival  of  cheerful  energy 
after  dispiriting  disaster.  It  was  a  far  more  imposing 
structure  than  the  first,  and  surrounded  by  quite  a  town 
of  buildings  filled  with  the  densest  crowds.  Now,  again, 
the  Champ  de  Mars  is  a  tabula  rasa,  and  all  that  is  to 
be  seen  across  its  vast  expense  at  night  is  perhaps  the 
lamp  of  a  solitary  cab  crossing  near  the  ficole  Militaire, 
and  proving  the  distance  by  the  excessive  apparent 
slowness  of  its  motion. 

The  Trocadero  Palace,  which  is  left  as  a  permanent 
legacy  of  the  Exhibition  of  1878,  has  often  been  se- 
verely criticised  on  account  of  its  large  protuberant  cen- 
tral body  and  its  great  curving  arms.  French  people 
say  it  is  like  Victor  Hugo's  "  Pieuvre,"  but  these  criti- 
cisms can  only  be  applicable  when  the  building  is  seen 
from  a  little  distance.  From  the  Champ  de  Mars  it 
presents  a  most  imposing  appearance,  especially  on  a 
fine  night.  The  site  is  incomparable.  The  whole  width 
of  the  building  has  a  clear  space  before  it  for  nearly 
fifteen  hundred  metres,  and  it  stands  upon  a  stately 
height,  from  which  a  beautiful  garden  slopes  down,  at 
first  rapidly,  then  more  gently,  to  the  river,  crossed 
there  by  one  of  the  finest  of  its  bridges ;  then  comes 


Parks  and  Gardens.  191 

another  wide  space  of  garden,  and  beyond  that  the 
Champ  de  Mars.  When  the  sky  is  full  of  stars  and  all 
this  scene  covered  with  lights  like  an  illumination,  it  is 
enough  to  inspire  a  poet,  and  would  in  itself  be  in  the 
highest  degree  poetical  if  it  were  not  so  modern  and  so 
easily  accessible.  Only  forget  that  it  is  in  familiar  Paris, 
a  day's  journey  from  London,  forget  that  these  are 
gaslights,  imagine  that  those  stately  domes,  those  lofty 
towers,  are  the  dwelling  of  some  mighty  and  myste- 
rious Oriental  potentate,  and  by  getting  rid  of  the  ob- 
trusive commonplace  and  familiar,  you  may  enjoy  the 
real  magnificence  of  the  scene.  On  one  occasion,  the 
National  Festival  of  1883,  especial  art  was  employed  to 
enhance  the  beauty  of  the  spectacle,  and  then  it  reached 
a  degree  of  splendor  that  no  Eastern  sovereign  ever 
attempted. 

The  French  have  a  great  liking  for  open  and  exten- 
sive city  views.  If  London  belonged  to  them,  they 
would  clear  away  all  the  buildings  between  the  British 
Museum  and  Oxford  Street,  if  they  did  not  carry  a 
broad  avenue  down  to  the  Strand.  The  feeling  of 
openness  in  Paris  is  immensely  enhanced  by  the  way 
in  which  several  different  spaces  are  often  happily  com- 
bined. A  man's  garden  gains  in  apparent  liberty  by 
the  width  of  his  neighbor's  field.  The  garden  of  the 
Tuileries  has  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  and  then  the 
Champs  Elysees,  with  the  long  and  broad  avenue  be- 
yond, up  to  the  triumphal  arch.  There  is  a  general 
feeling  of  openness  about  the  Seine,  with  the  Champs 
Elysees  on  one  hand  and  the  Esplanade  des  Invalides 


192 


Paris. 


on  the  other.  As  for  the  Elysian  Fields  themselves, 
they  need  no  detailed  description.  They  do  not  seem 
to  be  very  much  of  an  Elysium,  but  they  offer  shade 


LA   NAUMACHIE,  —  PARC   DE   MONCEAU. 

and  seats  and  cool  draughts  of  Vienna  beer.  The  word 
"  fields  "  is  too  ambitious.  There  is  nothing  here  but  a 
little  wood  with  tidy  walks,  and  grass  kept  green  by 
perpetual  spray,  —  altogether  a  pleasant  small  substitute 
for  real  nature,  like  the  rivulet  fed  by  the  steam-engine. 


Parks  and  Gardens.  193 

The  Palais  de  1'Industrie  here  is  better  named  perhaps 
than  if  it  had  been  more  ambitiously  entitled  a  Palace 
of  Art,  since  the  pictures  at  the  annual  Salons  are  chiefly 
industrial  products  on  an  extensive  scale.  The  crudity 
of  color  which  used  to  be  the  peculiar  distinction  of  in- 
experienced English  painting  has  of  late  years  been 
attained,  or  surpassed,  by  a  multitude  of  energetic 
Frenchmen;  and  as  they  combine  with  it  a  national 
delight  in  self-assertion  and  a  peculiar  enjoyment  of  the 
horrible,  the  present  Salons  are  not  by  any  means  scenes 
of  unmixed  or  refined  pleasure,  though  held  in  the 
Elysian  Fields. 

The  garden  of  the  Luxembourg  is  one  of  the  most 
frequented  places  of  recreation  in  Paris,  and  it  is  much 
to  be  regretted  that  in  the  latter  days  of  the  Empire  it 
was  diminished  by  cutting  off  a  large  acute-angled  tri- 
angle at  the  upper  end  of  the  pepintire,  to  make  room 
for  the  Rue  de  1'Abbe  de  1'Epee  and  other  streets.  Some 
important  buildings,  including  the  ficole  des  Mines,  the 
Pharmacie  Centrale  des  Hopitaux,  and  a  large  new 
Lycee,  have  been  erected  on  ground  that  formerly  be- 
longed to  the  nursery  or  the  garden  of  the  Luxembourg, 
and  this  at  a  time  when  the  rapid  increase  of  Paris  in 
every  direction  made  it  more  than  ever  desirable  to  pre- 
serve all  open  spaces  with  the  most  jealous  care.  It  was 
a  piece  of  economy,  and  of  very  unpopular  economy,  the 
only  practical  reason  in  its  favor  being  that  the  new  Rue 
de  1'Abbe"  de  1'fipee  rendered  communication  a  little 
easier.  In  the  remaining  ground  there  are  five  pretty 
gardens  with  lawns  and  a  considerable  number  of  paral- 

'3 


1 94  Paris. 

lelograms  planted  with  trees ;  and  these,  with  the  more 
or  less  open  spaces  between  them,  serve  as  playgrounds 
for  the  children.  The  eastern  side  of  the  garden  is  the 
favorite  resting-place  for  grown-up  people,  who  sit  there 
on  many  hundreds  of  chairs.  What  I  have  called  es- 
pecially the  gardens  are  spaces  laid  out  as  lawns,  with 
winding  walks,  a  sufficiency  of  trees  for  shade,  and  plenty 
of  garden-seats.  The  lovers  of  tranquillity  seek  these 
retreats,  and  sit  quietly  watching  the  fine  spray  that 
spurts  from  the  water-pipes  on  the  lawn  and  makes  little 
rainbows  over  the  grass.  There  are  landscape-painters 
who  have  studios  in  that  quarter  and  who  prize  these 
little  gardens,  not  as  if  they  were  wild  nature,  but  for  the 
degree  of  refreshment  they  afford  to  eyes  weary  of  walls 
and  pavements. 

The  woods  of  Boulogne  and  Vincennes  both  lie 
immediately  outside  the  fortifications,  and  are  good 
specimens  of  what  the  French  understand  by  pleasure- 
grounds.  Both  have  artificial  lakes  of  considerable 
size  with  islands,  and  the  woods  are  pierced  in  various 
directions  by  well-kept  roads.  Although  the  recreation- 
grounds  within  the  walls  of  Paris  are  much  smaller  than 
the  London  Parks,  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  is  very  much 
larger.  Its  area  considerably  exceeds  two  thousand 
acres,  which  is  much  more  than  that  of  all  the  London 
parks  put  together,  and  it  includes  about  sixty  miles  of 
rides  and  drives.  Almost  every  reader  of  these  pages 
will  be  aware  already  that  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  is  the 
resort  of  all  Parisians  who  can  afford  to  keep  carriages 
and  horses ;  and  it  is  visited  on  holidays  by  many 


Parks  and  Gardens.  195 

thousands  of  the  middle  and  working  classes.  I  heartily 
appreciate  the  wisdom  of  setting  apart  a  great  space  of 
land  for  public  recreation,  the  noise  and  crowding  of 
city  life  make  such  places  necessary,  and  if  they  were 
not  firmly  protected  now  the  future  would  be  entirely 
deprived  of  them ;  but  I  cannot  say  that  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne  has  ever  seemed  to  me  delightful.  Any 
country  lane  that  winds  about  among  fields,  and  crosses 
a  stream  here  and  there,  now  hiding  itself  in  a  dell,  now 
affording  a  view  from  a  little  eminence,  suits  my  taste 
far  better  than  well-kept  carriage-drives  between  dense, 
monotonous  groves  of  green.  The  Bois  de  Boulogne 
is  one  of  those  places  in  which  a  lover  of  real  landscape 
feels  himself  to  be  most  a  prisoner.  The  very  perfec- 
tion with  which  it  is  all  kept  is  enough  to  make  him 
long  for  a  little  uncared-for  nature.  It  is  difficult  to  im- 
agine any  more  tiresome  form  of  recreation  than  that  of 
a  wealthy  Frenchman,  who  has  himself  dragged  along 
those  miles  and  miles  of  road  past  millions  of  trees  that 
always  seem  the  same.  The  real  amusement  of  such  a 
Frenchman  is  to  criticise  people  and  equipages ;  but  he 
might  enjoy  equal  facilities  for  such  a  mental  occupation 
on  a  chair  in  the  Champs  Elysees. 

The  prettiest  public  garden  in  Paris  is  the  Pare  Mon- 
ceau,  not  to  be  in  any  way  confounded  with  what  we  call 
a  park  in  England,  yet  a  piece  of  ground  very  tastefully 
laid  out  with  undulating  lawns,  shady  trees,  statues,  and 
a  little  sheet  of  water,  that  reflects  a  Corinthian  colon- 
nade in  a  half-circle.  Nothing  can  be  more  elegant 
than  this  colonnade,  which  has  been  preserved  from  the 


1 96  Paris. 

times  of  the  early  French  Renaissance,  but  nobody  knows 
exactly  from  what  palace  or  monument  it  was  taken. 
In  its  present  situation  it  seems  like  a  remnant  of  an- 
tique architecture  in  some  graceful  picture  by  Claude, 
and  one  is  grateful  for  the  good  sense  that  has  saved  it 
from  destruction.  Lalanne  once  made  a  very  poetical 
charcoal  drawing  of  it,  which  has  been  reproduced  in 
the  series  of  his  charcoals.  This  is  one  example  the 
more  of  the  happy  combination  of  architecture  with 
foliage  and  water.  Set  up  in  the  British  Museum, 
these  columns  would  signify  comparatively  little ;  but 
with  graceful  foliage  and  a  mirror  of  water,  they  are 
charming. 


XI. 

MODERN   PARISIAN   ARCHITECTURE. 

OF  all  modern  cities  Paris  is  the  one  in  which  the 
notion  of  architecture  is  most  generally  prevalent. 
In  London,  as  in  all  our  English  towns,  the  ordinary 
builders  have  worked  without  any  notion  of  architecture 
at  all,  and  the  real  architect  has  seldom  been  called  in 
unless  to  erect  some  important  public  building.  In 
Paris  architecture  of  some  kind  is  very  common.  Thou- 
sands of  houses  have  been  erected  with  a  definite  archi- 
tectural intention;  and  this  architectural  tendency  has 
of  late  years  become  so  habitual  that  in  the  better  quar- 
ters of  the  city  a  building  hardly  ever  rises  from  the 
ground  unless  it  has  been  designed  by  some  architect 
who  knows  what  art  is,  and  endeavors  to  apply  it  to 
little  things  as  well  as  great 

Modern  Parisian  architecture  has  settled  definitely 
into  a  new  form  of  Renaissance.  I  find  it  convenient 
to  separate  the  early  elegant  Renaissance  (of  which 
there  are  still  some  charming  examples  in  France,  full 
of  graceful  art  and  invention,  combined  with  delicate 
finish  in  workmanship)  from  the  heavy,  ascetic  Renais- 
sance that  followed  it,  in  which  there  was  no  enjoyment, 
no  fancy,  no  delicacy,  no  imagination,  and  scarcely  a 


1 98  Paris. 

trace  of  any  other  feeling  than  pure  pride  in  size,  and 
cost,  and  heaviness.  The  Hotel  de  Ville  and  the  Court 
of  the  Louvre  belong  to  the  elegant  Renaissance.  St. 
Eustache  is  an  attempt  to  marry  that  Renaissance  with 
Gothic,  but  the  west  front  of  St.  Eustache  is  in  that 
tiresome  style  which  in  my  own  mind  I  always  think  of 
as  the  stupid  eighteenth-century  Renaissance.  Now  the 
effort  of  modern  French  domestic  architects  has  been  to 
start  afresh  with  a  second  elegant  Renaissance,  and  in  a 
great  measure  they  have  succeeded.  They  have  eman- 
cipated themselves  from  the  dulness  and  heaviness  of 
their  immediate  predecessors ;  they  have  allowed  them- 
selves some  variety,  some  free  play  of  the  fancy  and 
intelligence ;  and  although  their  art  is  seldom  strikingly 
imaginative,  it  is  full  of  interesting  experiments.  A 
firmly  prejudiced  visitor  from  another  country  might 
easily  shut  his  eyes  against  it  altogether,  and  say  that 
it  is  all  exactly  alike,  because  it  is  generally  governed 
by  the  prevailing  taste  of  the  time ;  but  the  real  inter- 
est of  it  consists  in  the  variety  that  underlies  a  general 
fashion.  The  fashion  is  a  cheerful  and  free  Renaissance  ; 
the  variety  consists  in  the  use  of  as  much  freedom  as  is 
compatible  with  a  dominant  idea. 

A  few  experiments  have  been  tried  with  mediaeval 
forms,  or  with  mediaevalism  passing  into  Renaissance ; 
and  one  of  the  most  successful  of  these  latter  is  the 
building  of  the  Historical  Society  in  the  Boulevard  St. 
Germain ;  but  true  Gothic  has  been  definitively  and 
wisely  abandoned.  It  has  been  wisely  abandoned  be- 
cause the  pointed  window-head  never  looks  its  best 


Modern  Parisian  Architecture.  199 

unless  there  is  either  a  gable  or  a  larger  Gothic  arch 
above  it.  A  Gothic  window  does  not  look  well  in  a 
room  with  a  flat  ceiling,  and  a  row  of  Gothic  windows 
do  not  look  in  their  right  place  under  a  long  straight 
cornice,  like  those  in  a  modern  street.  Under  the  gables 
of  a  mediaeval  street  they  might  look  better,  but  a  row 
of  gables,  like  the  teeth  of  a  saw,  is  neither  the  most 
rational  nor  the  most  economical  form  of  roofing  for 
street  houses,  and  it  has  been  finally  and  completely 
abandoned.  You  may,  it  is  true,  fill  up  your  Gothic 
window-head  with  a  tympanum  in  the  shape  of  an  in- 
verted shield,  and  so  get  a  square  head  for  the  real 
window  inside,  but  such  a  process  is  unnecessarily  ex- 
pensive. Evidently  the  plain  course  was  to  adopt  the 
straight  head,  the  simple  horizontal  stone  of  classic 
architecture,  and  that  settled  the  question  in  favor  of 
Renaissance  forms.  The  condition  of  another  art  may 
also  have  had  its  influence.  Modern  French  sculpture 
comes  almost  directly  from  antiquity;  it  has  come  from 
Greece  and  Rome  through  the  Renaissance ;  it  has  not 
come  out  of  Gothic  forms  by  evolution.  Modern  French 
sculptors  can  be  trained  to  do  something  that  will  pass 
with  unobservant  people  as  a  substitute  for  Gothic  sculp- 
ture, but  it  is  not  natural  to  them.  They  try  to  make 
their  work  naif,  but  they  only  succeed  in  making  it  stiff; 
they  have  not  the  true  Gothic  nawett,  and  they  cannot 
have  it;  they  cannot  have  that  delightful  blending  of 
pre-scientific  simplicity  with  deep  feeling  and  shrewd 
observation  which  characterized  Gothic  art.  They  know 
far  too  much,  and  when  they  feel,  they  do  not  feel  in 


2OO  Paris. 

that  manner.  Now  there  are  great  numbers  of  sculptors  in 
Paris  who  have  received  a  considerable  amount  of  artistic 
instruction,  but  who  cannot  keep  themselves  by  making 
statues  that  only  the  Government  buys,  so  these  men 
turn  their  talents  to  ornamental  sculpture.  Their  edu- 
cation in  art  has  been  wholly  classical,  and  their  prac- 
tical influence  upon  modern  architecture  has  been  very 
considerable,  because  the  architects  know  exactly  what 
sort  of  ornamental  work  the  carvers  are  fit  to  do.  In 
short,  the  sort  of  domestic  architecture  that  naturally 
springs  from  the  Parisian  mind,  such  as  education  has 
fashioned  it,  must  be  a  form  of  Renaissance  architec- 
ture, and  none  other.  A  literary  critic  has  remarked 
that  we  are  much  nearer,  intellectually,  to  the  classic 
authors  than  to  the  mediaeval  ones ;  and  it  is  not  less 
true  that  the  architects  and  workmen  of  modern  Paris 
work  in  Renaissance  forms  as  naturally,  and  when  left 
to  themselves  as  inevitably,  as  they  speak  French.  Such 
forms  have  no  longer  anything  of  an  imported  style; 
they  seem  as  much  a  product  of  the  soil  as  if  they  had 
been  invented  by  the  ancient  Gauls.1 

1  I  remember  trying,  many  years  ago,  to  get  an  oak  pedestal  carved  in 
Paris.  It  was  supported  by  three  griffins,  and  I  had  drawn  Gothic 
griffins,  but  the  carvers  I  applied  to  immediately  made  sketches  of  Re- 
naissance griffins,  and  said  they  would  do  much  better.  As  that  was 
the  transformation  I  had  been  most  anxious  to  avoid  (for  the  particular 
piece  of  furniture  in  question),  I  gave  up  the  project.  The  carvers  were 
highly  intelligent  workmen,  yet  quite  incapable  of  conceiving  anything 
that  was  not  in  a  Renaissance  spirit.  I  had  another  example  of  the  same 
difficulty  afterwards.  A  French  draughtsman  was  employed  to  copy  with 
the  pen,  for  photographic  reproduction,  a  series  of  pictures  by  an  English 
pre-Raphaelite  artist.  In  making  the  copies  he  eliminated  all  the  pre- 
Raphaelite  characteristics  of  feeling  and  style,  and  substituted  those  of 


Modern  Parisian  Architecture.  201 

Any  adequate  account  of  modern  architecture  in 
Paris  would  require  a  volume  to  itself,  and  such  an 
account  could  not  be  made  interesting  or  intelligible 
without  the  help  of  minute  and  abundant  architectural 
engraving,  while  it  would  find  few  readers  outside  the 
special  public  that  really  studies  architectural  subjects. 
All  that  can  be  done  here  is  to  give  a  general  account 
of  prevailing  tendencies.  The  reader  who  cares  to 
follow  out  the  subject  may  do  so  with  the  help  of  the 
works  issued  by  the  Parisian  architects  themselves. 

The  mediaeval  arrangement  was  to  turn  the  gable 
towards  the  street,  and  in  a  mediaeval  city  every  house 
had  its  own  gable,  whence  the  old  French  expression 
concerning  a  well-to-do  citizen  that  he  had  pignon 
sur  rue.  Nothing  strikes  us  more  in  the  old  engravings 
of  Paris  than  the  wonderful  number  of  gables,  especially 
round  such  open  spaces  as  the  Place  de  Greve  and  the 
Cimetiere  des  Innocents.  Many  of  these  survived  until 
the  eighteenth  century,  but  they  belong  essentially  to 
Gothic  times.  The  greatest  clearing  away  of  gables 
appears  to  have  taken  place  in  the  seventeenth  century, 
after  having  been  begun  a  hundred  years  earlier  or 
more.  Under  Louis  XIV.  every  house-builder  appears 
to  have  turned  the  eaves  towards  the  street  like  the 
architects  of  the  present  day;  and  as  in  succeeding 
reigns  the  old  houses  were  finally  removed  from  the 

the  Renaissance,  thereby,  of  course,  entirely  falsifying  the  intentions  of 
the  original  painter.  I  believe  he  did  this  quite  unconsciously  ;  at  any 
rate,  he  was  evidently  incapable  of  supposing  that  the  peculiar  interest 
of  the  originals  lay  precisely  in  those  very  characteristics  that  he 
eliminated. 


202  Paris. 

bridges  and  quays  the  eyes  of  the  citizens  became  more 
and  more  accustomed  to  continuity  of  line. 

Still,  although  the  eaves  were  turned  towards  the 
street,  the  gable  was  not  entirely  abolished,  because  it 
occurred  at  the  end  of  every  row  of  houses.  Instead 
of  being  innumerable,  the  gables  had  become  few,  but 
that  was  the  extent  of  the  change.  Now  in  modern 
Paris  the  gable  is  entirely  abolished  except  in  a  few 
private  mansions  where  the  owner  has  followed  his 
own  taste;  and  the  abolition  of  the  gable  is  one  of 
the  most  important  of  all  decisive  changes.  It  cuts 
modern  architecture  completely  adrift  from  mediaeval. 
And  please  observe  that  this  revolution  has  not  been 
accomplished,  as  in  London,  by  the  abolition  of  the 
visible  roof.  There  are  plenty  of  streets  in  London 
where  you  cannot  see  the  roofs  of  the  opposite  houses. 
In  Paris  it  is  not  so.  There  the  roof  is  rightly  felt  to 
be  of  the  greatest  expressional  importance;  but  instead 
of  ending  with  a  gable,  it  is  truncated  either  with  a 
roof  sloping  at  the  same  angle  as  the  other,  or  with 
a  curve  when  the  rest  of  the  roof  is  arched.  The  value 
of  space  in  Parisian  houses  has  led  to  the  very  general 
adoption  of  arched  or  bulging  roofs,  which  have  the 
advantage  of  allowing  so  much  more  head-room,  a 
truth  well  known  to  all  who  use  tents  and  wagons.  In 
cases  where  the  curve  is  not  employed,  the  roof  often 
begins  by  being  exceedingly  steep  and  then  comes  to 
an  angle  from  which  it  slopes  back  rapidly  to  the  ridge, 
and  in  the  steep  part  of  it  there  is  a  row  of  dormer 
windows. 


Modern  Parisian  Architecture.  203 

The  modern  Parisian  house,  then,  is  characterized 
by  a  visible  roof,  curved  or  angular,  with  dormer  win- 
dows in  it,  but  not  any  gable  either  towards  the  street 
or  at  the  end.  The  windows  are  flat-headed,  they  are 
very  frequently  provided  with  an  entablature  and  with 
lateral  mouldings,  while  in  a  great  number  of  the  bet- 
ter class  of  houses  the  stonework  that  surrounds  the 
window  is  carved  more  or  less  elaborately,  but  almost 
always  with  knowledge  and  good  taste.  Great  use 
has  been  made  of  balconies  as  an  element  of  archi- 
tectural interest  and  an  excuse  for  tasteful  decoration. 
They  are  always  supported  on  massive  stone  brackets 
which  in  every  instance  show  at  least  an  attempt  at 
design,  while  many  of  them  are  beautiful  in  form  and 
enriched  with  excellent  ornamental  sculpture.  The 
doorways,  in  modern  houses,  are  generally  of  impor- 
tance. The  French  habit  of  living  on  flats  makes  one 
doorway  the  entrance  to  many  dwellings,  so  that  an 
amount  of  ornament  may  be  lavished  upon  it  which 
would  be  extravagant  and  impossible  for  a  single 
tenant.  The  finest  ot  such  doorways  consist  of  a 
lofty  stone  arch  decorated  with  sculpture  and  filled 
with  a  tympanum  of  oak  with  folding-doors  below, 
large  enough  for  the  passage  of  carriages.  The  wood- 
work is  thoroughly  sound  and  well  finished,  very  strong 
and  massive,  and  left  almost  of  its  natural  color,  but 
varnished.  Carving  is  employed  on  the  woodwork, 
but  generally  in  moderation,  and  always  in  perfect 
keeping  with  the  stone-carving  on  the  rest  of  the  edi- 
fice. There  is  also  a  taste  for  massive  handles  plated 


2O4 


Paris. 


with  nickel  or  silver  and  set  in  small  slabs  of  marble. 
Up  in  the  panels  of  the  tympanum  there  is  often  a 
window  belonging  to  the  entresol ;  and  when  this  occurs 


DOORWAY  OF  A  MODERN  HOUSE. 

the  surroundings  of  the  window  in  mouldings,  carvings, 
and  panels  are  as  carefully  designed,  though  in  wood- 
work, as  the  masonry  of  the  house  itself.  In  such 
a  house  there  is  not  an  inch  of  surface  from  roof  to 


Modern  Parisian  Architecture.  205 

basement  that  is  not  ruled  by  thoughtful  care  and 
taste,  accompanied  by  sufficient  knowledge.  I  do  not 
speak  of  genius  and  inspiration,  these  are  as  rare  in 
architectural  as  in  literary  work ;  but  it  is  a  great  thing 
to  have  banished  ignorance  and  bad  taste.  It  is  a  great 
thing,  too,  that  house-builders  should  have  got  well 
out  of  that  negative  condition  of  perfect  dulness,  of 
incapacity  to  desire  or  apprehend  the  beautiful,  which 
produced  such  houses  as  those  in  Harley  Street.  Even 
in  Paris  itself,  although  the  builders  from  Louis  XIV.  to 
Louis  Napoleon  sometimes  erected  interesting  separate 
mansions,  they  treated  houses  in  rows  with  wearisome 
monotony  whenever  they  had  power  to  build  a  row  of 
houses  at  all.  The  last  houses  on  the  Pont  au  Change, 
which  were  finished  in  1647  and  demolished  in  1788, 
were  as  dull  as  domestic  architecture  of  the  last  century 
in  London.  The  supplementary  buildings  of  the  Hotel 
Dieu  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Seine,  which  were  com- 
pleted in  the  eighteenth  century,  had  not  more  archi- 
tecture than  a  cotton-mill,  and  the  houses  behind  them 
were  no  better.  The  pretty  modern  Parisian  house 
does  not  date  farther  back  than  Louis  Napoleon,  and 
at  first  it  was  monotonously  repeated.  The  desire  for 
variety  came  in  due  course,  but  it  was  only  towards 
the  close  of  the  reign  that  the  possibilities  of  the  new 
style  came  to  be  thoroughly  understood.  It  still  re- 
quires, I  think,  a  more  obvious  and  clearly  visible 
variety,  though  it  is  easy  to  fall  into  the  common  error 
of  not  observing  the  degree  of  variety  that  there  is. 
More  will  have  to  be  said  about  street  architecture  in 


206  Paris. 

the  next  chapter.  For  the  present  I  desire  to  point 
out  a  peculiar  effect  of  the  increased  attention  paid 
to  the  architecture  of  houses.  Since  so  many  of  the 
houses  have  been  made  lofty  and  beautiful,  many  new 
public  buildings  have  been  very  strongly  influenced  by 
them,  both  as  to  their  proportions  and  their  style  of 
architecture.  Some  readers  will  remember  an  absurdly 
small  church  at  Geneva  with  a  miniature  tower,  which 
is  surrounded  by  very  lofty  modern  houses.  In  a 
village  of  low  cottages  such  a  church  would  look  re- 
spectable ;  at  Geneva  it  is  like  a  model  set  there  for 
the  people  to  look  down  upon  from  their  windows. 
On  the  contrary,  Rouen  Cathedral  gains  by  contrast 
with  the  old-fashioned  houses  close  to  it,  which  are 
not  on  a  great  scale.  The  merit  of  Parisian  architects 
is  to  have  perceived  the  new  necessities  in  public  build- 
ings created  by  streets  of  magnificent  private  dwellings. 
If  the  ordinary  architecture  of  a  city  is  on  a  large 
scale  and  richly  decorated,  its  public  buildings  must 
still  distinguish  themselves  by  greater  richness.  One 
consequence  of  the  reconstruction  of  Parisian  dwell- 
ings has  been  the  rebuilding,  in  whole  or  in  part,  of 
almost  all  those  theatres  that  happened  to  be  near 
new  streets  or  squares.  The  Theatre  Francais  had 
a  new  front;  the  Opera  was  rebuilt  with  unparalleled 
magnificence ;  the  Vaudeville  had  a  narrow  but  strik- 
ingly rich  curved  faqade  at  the  corner  of  the  Chausse"e 
d'Antin,  with  Corinthian  columns  and  Caryatides  and 
a  fronton  crowned  with  a  statue  of  Apollo.  The  new 
Theatre  de  la  Renaissance  is  a  heavy  but  sumptuous 


Modern  Parisian  Architecture.  207 

structure,  also  adorned  with  Caryatides  and  Corinthian 
columns.  The  Gaite  was  rebuilt  in  1861  with  a  pretty 
arcade  on  marble  columns  in  front  of  its  open  loggia. 
The  Chatelet  was  built  at  the  same  date,  and  has  also 
its  loggia,  but  with  statues  under  the  five  arches.  The 
neighboring  Theatre  Historique,  which  used  to  be  the 
Lyrique,  was  also  built  under  Louis  Napoleon,  though 
it  has  been  rebuilt  since  in  consequence  of  incendiarism 
by  the  Communards.  The  construction  of  these  build- 
ings, and  of  many  others,  was  made  a  necessity  by 
the  handsome  new  houses.  The  Odeon  belongs  to  the 
beginning  of  this  century  and  is  a  plain,  respectable 
structure.  It  may  remain  as  it  is  because  the  houses 
near  it  are  plain,  old-fashioned  dwellings  of  the  same 
or  an  earlier  date ;  but  if  the  Odeon  could  be  placed 
where  the  Opera  is  now,  it  would  be  too  simple  for 
such  a  situation. 

Yes,  the  French  understand  the  effect  of  neighbor- 
hood in  architecture,  an  effect  which  may  either  com- 
pletely destroy  or  wonderfully  enhance  the  charm  and 
interest  of  a  building.  I  wish  it  could  be  said  that  the 
English  understood  this  equally  well,  or  were  equally 
ready  to  make  the  sacrifices  that  are  necessary  to  protect 
a  building  from  being  injured  by  its  neighbors.  The 
French  are  not  always  careful  enough,  or,  at  least,  not 
always  successful,  as  we  see  in  the  injury  inflicted  by 
large  buildings  on  Notre  Dame  and  the  Sainte  Chapelle ; 
still  the  principle  is  understood  in  Paris,  and  very  few 
public  buildings  of  any  consequence  are  inadequate  to 
the  situations  which  they  occupy. 


208  Paris. 

The  most  magnificent  of  recent  structures,  and  one 
of  the  most  happily  situated,  is  the  Opera.  The  situa- 
tion has  been  created  for  it  purposely.  The  front  might 
have  looked  merely  across  a  street,  but  a  new  street  of 
great  length  was  opened,  that  it  might  be  seen  from  a 
distance.  Besides  this,  arrangements  were  made  for  the 
convergence  of  several  other  new  streets  in  front  of  the 
Opera,  so  as  to  give  to  its  site  the  utmost  possible  im- 
portance. As  the  houses  in  these  streets  are  all  of  them 
lofty  and  many  of  them  magnificent,  the  Opera  itself 
required  both  size  and  richness  to  hold  its  own  in  a 
situation  that  would  have  been  dangerous  to  a  feeble  or 
even  a  modest  architectural  performance.  The  Opera 
was  compelled  to  assert  itself  strongly,  and  if  it  had 
merits  they  must  be  of  a  showy  and  visible  kind,  — 
rather  those  of  the  sunflower  than  those  of  the  lily  of 
the  valley.  There  can  be  no  question  that  M.  Gamier 
aimed  at  the  right  kind  of  merit,  —  showy  magnificence,. 
—  but  there  are  two  opposite  opinions  about  his  taste. 
Like  all  important  contemporary  efforts,  the  Opera  has 
its  ardent  admirers  and  its  pitiless  critics.  Let  me  tell 
a  short  anecdote  about  this  building,  which  may  help 
us  in  some  measure  to  arrive  at  a  just  opinion.  Shortly 
after  its  completion  several  distinguished  men,  who 
were  not  architects,  met  at  a  Parisian  dinner-table,  and 
they  criticised  M.  Gamier  with  great  severity.  Among 
them  was  a  provincial  architect,  who  remained  silent 
till  the  others  appealed  to  him.  Then  he  said :  "  Gentle- 
men, when  an  architect  undertakes  to  erect  a  compara- 
tively small  building  it  is  still  a  very  complex  affair; 


THE  OPERA.   THE  PRINCIPAL  FRONT. 


Modern  Parisian  Architecture.  209 

and  how  much  more  so  must  be  such  a  gigantic  work 
as  the  Opera,  where  a  thousand  matters  of  detail  and 
necessity  have  to  be  provided  for,  all  of  which  the 
architect  has  to  carry  in  his  mind  together,  and  to  rec- 
oncile with  the  exigencies  of  art !  Such  a  task  is  one 
of  the  heaviest  and  longest  strains  that  can  be  imposed 
upon  the  mind  of  man;  and  if  the  architect  does  not 
satisfy  every  one,  it  may  be  because  other  people  are 
not  aware  of  the  extreme  complexity  of  the  problem." 
For  me,  I  confess  that  I  know  really  nothing  about 
theatres,  except  that  they  have  mysterious  difficulties 
of  their  own.  I  like  being  outside  better  than  inside 
them,  because  to  be  outside  is  at  the  same  time  cooler 
and  cheaper;  and  all  I  know  about  their  peculiar  form 
is  that  they  generally  have  a  gabled  superstructure, 
which  must  be  an  awkward  thing  for  an  architect,  and  is 
in  some  way  connected  with  scene-shifting.  I  humbly 
confess  that  the  Parisian  Opera  seems  to  me  a  very  odd 
^ort  of  structure  when  seen  from  behind,  and  perhaps  it 
might  have  been  better  to  hide  those  parts  of  it.  Yet  I 
like  to  see  the  whole  of  an  edifice,  the  complete  work 
of  the  architect,  and  not  merely  a  fine  front,  like  the 
front  of  a  shop.  The  truncated  angles  at  the  back  have 
a  decidedly  weakening  effect  upon  the  design,  but  the 
corners  were  cut  off  in  order  that  there  might  be  an 
apparent  correspondence  between  the  building  and  the 
Rues  Scribe  and  Gliick.  The  rotundas  on  the  east  and 
west  sides  have  a  good  effect  in  breaking  their  mo- 
notonous length,  and  their  domes  make  a  good  accom- 
paniment to  the  great  flattened  dome  over  the  house. 

14 


2io  Paris. 

The  principle  followed  everywhere  has  been  to  conform 
the  exterior  to  the  uses  of  the  edifice,  which  is  right. 
The  exterior  dissimulates  nothing,  and  consequently  it 
looks  like  nothing  in  the  world  but  what  it  is,  —  a  great 
theatre;  whereas  the  Vaudeville  might  be  taken  for 
the  entrance  to  a  bank,  and  the  Odeon  for  a  scientific 
lecture-hall  and  museum. 

Whatever  may  be  thought  of  the  back  and  sides 
of  the  Opera,  the  principal  front  may  be  admired  with- 
out reserve.  The  basement  is  a  massive  wall,  finished 
plainly,  and  pierced  with  seven  round  arches.  In  the 
intervals  between  five  of  these  arches  are  statues  and 
medallions ;  on  each  side  of  the  two  exterior  ones  are 
groups  representing  Music,  Lyrical  Poetry,  the  Lyrical 
Drama,  and  the  Dance.  The  contrast  here  of  extreme 
architectural  simplicity  with  figure-sculpture  is  excel- 
lent. Above  is  a  colonnade  of  coupled  Corinthian 
columns  supporting  an  entablature,  and  between  each 
two  pairs  of  columns  is  an  open  space,  in  which  a  lower 
and  smaller  entablature,  with  a  wall  above  it,  is  sup- 
ported on  smaller  columns  of  marble.  This  wall  is 
pierced  in  each  interval  with  a  circular  opening  con- 
taining the  gilded  bronze  bust  of  a  great  musician. 
Above  the  great  entablature,  and  immediately  over 
each  pair  of  coupled  columns,  is  a  medallion  with  sup- 
porters, and  above  each  open  space  of  the  loggia  is 
an  oblong  panel  with  sculpture.  Then  you  come  to  the 
dome  of  the  house  and  the  gable  of  the  structure  above 
the  stage.  The  effect  of  the  whole  is  a  combination 
of  splendor  with  strength  and  durability.  The  use  of 


T 


INTERIOR   OF   THE   CHURCH    OK   ST.    AUGUSTINE. 


Modern  Parisian  Architecture.  211 

sculpture  has  been  happy,  and  the  sculpture  has  not 
been  killed  by  the  architecture,  as  it  often  is.  On  the 
other  hand,  it  has  lightened  the  appearance  of  the 
architecture,  especially  on  the  top  of  the  edifice  where 
the  colossal  winged  figures  are  most  valuable,  —  and  so 
is  that  on  the  apex  which  holds  up  the  lyre  with  both 
hands. 

With  regard  to  the  interior,  my  humble  opinion  —  the 
opinion  of  one  who  knows  nothing  about  theatres  —  is, 
that  the  business  of  plotting  for  splendor  has  been  con- 
siderably overdone.  The  foyer  is  palatial,  but  it  is  over- 
charged with  heavy  ornament,  like  the  palace  of  some 
lavish  but  vulgar  king.  As  for  poor  Paul  Baudry's 
paintings  on  the  ceiling,  which  cost  him  such  an  in- 
finity of  labor  and  pains,  it  does  not  in  the  least  signify 
what  he  painted  or  how  long  it  will  last,  for  nobody  can 
see  his  work  in  its  present  situation.  There  can  hardly 
be  any  more  deplorable  waste  of  industry  and  knowl- 
edge than  to  devote  it  to  the  painting  of  ceilings  that 
we  cannot  look  at  without  pains  in  the  neck,  and  can- 
not see  properly  when  we  do  look  at  them.  The  grand 
staircase  is  more  decidedly  a  success  than  the  foyer.  It 
almost  overpowers  us  by  its  splendor ;  it  is  full  of  daz- 
zling light;  it  conveys  a  strong  sense  of  height,  space, 
openness ;  it  comes  on  the  sight  as  a  burst  of  brilliant 
and  triumphant  music  on  the  ear.  The  mind  has  its 
own  satisfaction  in  a  work  that  is  splendid  without  false 
pretension.  All  the  materials  are  really  what  they  seem. 
The  thirty  columns  are  monoliths  of  marble,  every  step 
is  of  white  Italian  marble,  the  hand-rail  of  onyx,  sup- 


212 


Paris. 


THE   CHURCH    OF   ST.    AUGUSTINE. 

ported  by  balusters  of  rouge  antique,  on  a  base  of  green 
marble  from  Sweden.  We  may  admire  the  grand  stair- 
case or  object  to  it,  but  it  is  honest  work  throughout, 


Modern  Parisian  Architecture.  213 

and  may  last  a  thousand  years.  The  architect  evidently 
took  pride  in  it,  as  he  has  so  planned  the  design  that 
visitors  may  look  down  from  galleries  on  four  different 
stories  all  round  the  building.  The  house  itself  is  much 
less  original,  with  its  decoration  of  red  and  gold,  and  the 
customary  arrangements  for  the  audience. 

House  architecture  in  the  modern  streets  of  Paris  has 
led  the  architects  to  attempt  the  solution  of  a  very  diffi- 
cult problem.  They  have  endeavored,  —  I  will  not  say 
to  invent  a  new  style  of  ecclesiastical  architecture  (for  a 
really  new  style  is  not  possible),  but  to  adapt  an  old 
style  in  such  a  manner  as  to  make  it  harmonize  with  the 
secular  and  domestic  architecture  of  our  own  time.  If 
the  reader  will  glance  back  in  memory  at  the  styles  of 
church  architecture  that  have  prevailed  or  been  experi- 
mented upon  since  the  beginning  of  French  civilization, 
he  will  soon  perceive  that  there  really  is  not  one  of 
them  that  would  not  look  isolated  in  a  modern  boule- 
vard. The  Romanesque  and  Gothic  styles,  in  all  their 
varieties,  look  completely  isolated.  A  classic  temple 
like  the  Madeleine  looks  out  of  place  for  various  rea- 
sons, especially  for  its  want  of  height  in  comparison 
with  modern  houses,  and  its  prison-like  absence  of 
openings,  so  different  from  the  modern  wall,  pierced 
with  many  windows.  The  architect  of  St.  Eustache 
made  a  most  important  experiment  in  the  union  of 
Gothic  principles  with  the  details  of  the  elegant  Renais- 
sance, but  his  example  has  not  been  followed.  As  for 
the  dull  and  heavy  architecture  that  I  have  ventured  to 
call  plainly  the  stupid  Renaissance,  it  would  look  uglier 


214 


Paris. 


than  ever  if  placed  in  the  neighborhood   of  intelligent 
and  inventive  modern  domestic  building.     Contempo- 


INTERIOR   OF   THE   CHURCH    OF   LA   TRINITE. 

rary  Parisian  architects  have  endeavored  to   solve  the 
problem  by  a  free  expansion  of  Byzantine  ideas.     The 


Modern  Parisian  Architecture.  215 

most  interesting  of  these  experiments  is  the  Church 
of  St.  Augustine,  where  stone  and  cast-iron  have  been 
employed  together.  The  use  of  cast-iron  has  been 
almost  entirely  confined  to  the  roof  and  dome.  The 
nave  is  crossed  by  light  iron  arches,  with  spandrels 
of  the  same  material;  and  from  these  arches  a  metal 
column  comes  down  to  the  ground  on  each  side,  set 
against  the  stone  pier  like  a  pilaster.  These  iron  arches 
carry  depressed  vaults  corresponding  to  the  bays.  The 
dome  is  almost  entirely  metallic ;  its  ribs,  and  even  the 
mullions  of  its  windows,  are  of  iron.  Each  bay  of  the 
nave  consists  of  a  round  arch  with  three  minor  arches 
above  it  in  the  triforium  gallery,  themselves  included  in 
a  higher  arch,  and  in  front  of  the  triforium  runs  a  gilded 
railing.  The  windows  of  the  clerestory  are  round- 
arched,  each  with  two  lights,  containing,  in  painted 
glass,  figures  of  bishops  or  other  ecclesiastics.  Orna- 
ment is  used  in  moderation,  and  is  not  in  itself  of  an 
elaborate  kind,  a  small  lozenge-shaped  or  square  panel 
being  considered  enough  to  vary  a  space  of  plain  wall. 
The  tympanum  between  the  three  small  arches  and  the 
large  one  that  includes  them  is  richer. 

The  interior  of  the  church  has  certain  merits  in  a 
very  high  degree.  It  is  not  only  spacious  and  airy  in 
reality,  but  it  looks  so.  I  have  seldom  found  myself 
beneath  a  dome  that  seemed  so  light  and  lofty.  The 
nave  is  of  great  width,  but  there  are  no  aisles,  and  the 
lateral  chapels  are  unfortunate  in  shape,  owing  to  the 
site,  which  compelled  M.  Baltard,  the  architect,  to  make 
them  narrower  and  narrower  as  they  approach  the 


2 1 6  Paris. 

t ' 

principal  entrance.  The  exterior  has  been  considerably 
injured  by  this  necessity,  which  gives  the  whole  edifice 
the  appearance  of  being  huddled  together.  The  towers 
are  too  close  to  the  dome,  and  the  front  seems  to 
require  lateral  support  of  some  kind.  Much  of  the  in- 
terest of  this  church  as  a  piece  of  work  consists  in  the 
difficulty  of  the  site.  That  may  have  been  one  of  the 
reasons  for  the  employment  of  iron  in  the  roof,  as  it 
caused  so  much  less  outward  thrust,  and  the  building 
could  not  spread  itself  laterally.  Whatever  the  reason, 
the  iron  has  been  skilfully  used,  and  in  that  respect,  as 
well  as  in  the  character  of  all  the  other  arts  employed, 
this  church  is  thoroughly  of  our  own  time. 

The  Church  of  La  Trinite  is  another  important  exam- 
ple of  modernism.  The  nave  is  very  wide,  and  vaulted 
in  a  large  round  arch.  The  aisles  are  very  narrow,  and 
separated  from  the  nave  by  an  arcade  of  round  arches 
supported  on  marble  pillars  between  the  piers.  Above 
the  aisles  runs  a  lofty  gallery,  with  a  similar  arcade  and 
a  pierced  parapet.  The  space  above  the  high  altar  is 
narrowed  by  the  projection  of  two  arcades,  equal  in 
height  to  those  of  the  aisles,  and  finished  by  a  contin- 
uation of  the  parapet  just  mentioned.  There  is  a  small 
apse  behind.  The  church  has  a  tower  crowned  with  an 
octagonal  dome  and  lantern,  and  flanked  by  two  small 
lanterns,  also  with  domes.  The  round  arch  is  dominant 
everywhere,  except  over  the  niches  and  doors,  where 
pediments  have  been  frequently  employed.  In  the  per- 
fect finish  of  the  workmanship,  the  richness  and  excel- 
lence of  the  materials,  and  a  general  air  of  palatial 


THE   CHURCH   OF   LA   TRINITE. 


Modern  Parisian  Architecture.  217 

elegance,  this  church  is  quite  modern  and  Parisian.  It 
is  curious  to  observe  how  well  it  holds  its  place  between 
two  large  blocks  of  houses  built  at  the  same  date  with 
itself,  which  have  round  arches  over  \hfentresol,  and 
louvre  windows  not  much  unlike  the  upper  niches,  and 
pilasters  recalling  those  at  the  angles  of  the  church. 
Opposite  the  Trinite,  the  houses  at  the  angles  of  the 
Chaussee  d'Antin  are  finished  with  domes.  The  balus- 
trade immediately  in  front  of  the  Trinite  (behind  the 
three  fountains)  is  carried  round  the  pretty  garden, 
which  seems  in  this  way  to  belong  to  the  church.  For 
all  these  reasons  this  piece  of  ecclesiastical  architecture 
is  allied  to  its  surroundings  just  as  the  Gothic  cathe- 
drals were  in  the  Middle  Ages. 

Another  example  of  the  same  modern  style,  founded 
upon  the  combination  of  the  round  arch  with  the  classic 
capital,  is  the  Church  of  St.  Francois  Xavier,  near  the 
Invalides.  This  church  is  plainer  and  simpler  than  the 
Trinite,  and  much  smaller  than  St.  Augustine.  It  is 
not  in  any  way  imposing,  but  it  is  interesting  as  one  of 
the  most  honest  attempts  of  a  modern  architect  1;o  build 
in  a  modern  way.  Such  work  is  far  less  unsatisfactory 
than  a  thin  attempt  at  Gothic  like  St.  Clotilde. 

In  Paris,  where  there  is  really  a  modern  style  of  do- 
mestic architecture,  it  is  possible  that  in  the  future  a 
corresponding  ecclesiastical  architecture  may  become 
habitual.  Gothic  is  too  remote  from  modern  habits  of 
design  and  too  much  isolated  in  the  midst  of  modern 
houses.  A  heavy  Renaissance  like  that  of  St.  Sulpice 
is  too  much  wanting  in  grace  and  cheerfulness.  What 


2 1 8  Paris. 

really  suits  modern  Paris  is  a  sort  of  Renaissance,  very- 
delicate  in  workmanship  everywhere,  and  combining 
readily  with  intelligent  painting  and  sculpture.  It 
should  employ  beautiful  materials,  fine  marbles,  gilded 
bronze,  and  other  good  modern  metal-work.  At  St. 
Augustine  the  doors  are  in  electrotype  copper.  Above 
all,  the  modern  style  should  leave  great  liberty  to  the 
taste  and  fancy  of  each  individual  architect,  because  it 
is  only  in  this  way  that  any  boldness  of  experiment  can 
be  possible,  or  any  new  ideas  evolved.  These  modern 
churches  show  signs  of  real  vitality,  and  in  this  respect 
are  more  hopeful  than  any  mere  pasticlie  of  Gothic  or 
Italian  art. 


XII. 

THE   STREETS. 

THE  English  have  invented  the  house,  the  French 
have  invented  the  street.  By  this  I  do  not  ven- 
ture to  affirm  or  undertake  to  maintain  that  nobody 
lived  in  what  were  called  houses  before  the  existence 
of  Englishmen,  nor  that  ancient  cities  had  not  streets 
of  some  kind ;  but  I  mean  that  the  English  are  the  first 
people  who  have  thoroughly  understood  the  house  and 
realized  it,  setting  in  this  respect  an  example  to  other 
nations,  and  that  the  French  are  the  first  people  who 
have  thoroughly  understood  the  street  and  realized  a 
conception  of  it  which  has  become  a  model  of  excel- 
lence in  its  own  kind. 

An  Englishman  who  finds  himself  in  some  great 
Parisian  street  quite  of  our  own  time,  such  as  the  Boule- 
vard Haussmann  or  the  Boulevard  Malesherbes,  has 
nothing  to  do  but  simply  confess  that  here  is  the  ideal 
street,1  and  that  his  own  Piccadilly  and  Oxford  Street 

1  For  our  part  of  Europe  and  other  temperate  climates.  It  appears 
that  narrow,  tortuous  streets,  with  overhanging  stories  and  a  space  above 
that  can  be  easily  covered  with  an  awning,  are  much  preferable  in  hot 
countries. 


220  Paris. 

are  not  yet  the  ideal.  A  street  should  not  only  be  wide, 
for  the  facility  of  traffic,  but  it  should  be  of  the  same 
width  throughout,  that  there  may  be  no  local  obstruc- 
tion. The  causeways  for  foot-passengers  ought  to  be 
wide  also,  and  there  ought  to  be  seats  where  they  may 
rest  when  weary.  Trees  are  not  an  absolute  necessity, 
but  next  to  space,  air,  and  light,  they  are  the  greatest 
of  all  luxuries,  not  only  for  their  shade,  but  for  the 
delightful  refreshment  afforded  by  the  green  of  their 
foliage  in  a  wilderness  of  stone  and  mortar.  With  the 
blue  sky  and  the  passing  clouds  above,  and  the  fresh 
green  leaves  on  the  trees,  it  seems  as  if  nature  were  not 
quite  banished  yet. 

True  lovers  of  Paris  (I  am  simply  an  admirer,  and 
have  no  sentiment  of  affection  for  the  place)  take  a 
keen  delight  in  those  broad  trottoirs  of  the  Boulevards. 
They  walk  upon  them  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  being 
there,  till  absolute  weariness  compels  them  to  sit  down 
before  a  cafe ;  and  when  the  feelings  of  exhaustion  are 
over,  they  rise  to  tire  themselves  again,  like  a  girl  at 
a  ball.  They  tell  one  that  the  mere  sensation  of  the 
Parisian  asphaltum  under  the  feet  is  an  excitement 
itself,  so  that  when  aided  by  "  little  glasses "  in  the 
moments  of  rest  at  the  cafes,  it  must  be  positively  in- 
toxicating. These  true  lovers  of  Paris  are  most  en- 
chanted with  those  parts  of  the  Boulevards  where  the 
crowd  is  always  so  dense  that  all  freedom  of  motion 
is  impossible ;  where  half  the  foot-way  is  occupied  by 
thousands  of  cafe  chairs  and  the  other  half  by  a  closely 
packed  multitude  of  loungers.  The  favorite  places 


7 he  Streets.  221 

appear  to  be  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens  and  the  Boule- 
vard Montmartre.  The  shops  are,  in  fact,  a  great  per- 
manent exhibition  of  industry  and  the  fine  arts,  wonder- 
fully lighted  at  night,1  and  very  attractive  to  those  who 
visit  Paris  on  rare  occasions;  but  it  is  surprising  how 
much  of  the  illusion  disappears  after  close  and  old 
acquaintance.  You  find  the  same  things  repeated, 
either  identically  or  with  slight  changes  that  are  easily 
seen  through.  It  may  not  be  exactly  the  same  picture 
that  you  saw  in  the  dealer's  window  three  years  ago,  but 
very  likely  it  will  be  the  same  kind  of  picture,  set  off  in 
the  same  way  by  an  enormously  disproportionate  frame 
on  a  background  of  dark  red  velvet,  the  whole  so  lighted 
that  the  gilding  flames  across  the  street.  The  bronzes 
are  not  quite  the  same  perhaps,  yet  it  is  difficult  to 
believe  them  new.  There  is  the  old  green  caricature- 
bronze,  some  meagre-limbed  Mephistopheles ;  there  is 
the  Barye  or  Cain  animal  bronze ;  there  are  the  multi- 
tudes of  coppery  girls,  as  evidently  daughters  of  Paris 
as  if  they  were  dressed,  and  dressed  in  the  fashion. 
Amid  the  glittering  shops,  where  the  object  is  to 
vanquish  the  eye  by  mere  dazzle,  you  come  upon  the 
intensely  respectable,  excessively  quiet  shops,  that  in- 
vite only  to  repose.  Nothing  amuses  me  more  in  the 
French  mind  than  its  fine  artistic  faculty  of  taking  up  a 
motive  and  keeping  to  it.  The  faculty  deserves  hearty 
admiration,  but  the  exercise  of  it  is  amusing  because 
it  is  simply  artistic,  like  acting,  and  has  nothing  to  do 

1  On  the  old  much-frequented  Boulevards,  but  elsewhere  early  closing 
is  beginning  to  prevail. 


222  Paris. 

with  character.  You  pass  a  glaring,  frivolous-looking 
shop,  full  of  gayety  and  glitter,  and  then  you  meet  with 
a  dark-looking,  quiet  shop,  that  looks  like  a  retreat  for 
a  profoundly  meditative  mind,  and  is  severely  finished 
in  ebony  and  stamped  leather.  What  is  admirable  in 
such  places  is  the  determination  to  keep  out  the  in- 
congruous. It  must  be  one  of  the  keenest  pleasures  to 
plan  a  shop  of  the  severe  kind,  to  decide  upon  its  sober 
colors,  its  rich  yet  simple  decoration.  I  am  not  the 
inventor  of  the  remark  that  the  French  have  a  genius 
for  shop-keeping.  Their  love  of  neatness  and  order, 
their  appreciation  of  pretty  things,  their  talent  for  mak- 
ing the  most  of  everything  and  showing  it  to  the  best 
advantage,  all  combine  to  make  them  masters  in  the 
art  of  managing  a  devanture.  The  proverb,  Marchandise 
bien  parfe  est  a  moitie  v  endue,  is  a  piece  of  French  mer- 
cantile wisdom.  There  are  all  varieties  in  the  art  of 
exhibiting  goods.  One  dealer  overwhelms  you  with 
quantity,  but  that  is  an  appeal  to  the  vulgar.  The 
opposite  policy  seems  far  more  refined  and  crafty.  I 
confess  to  a  sincere  admiration  for  the  tempter  who 
displays  very  few  but  very  exquisite  things,  and  has 
the  art  of  arranging  them  so  that  they  shall  help  each 
other.  One  Parisian  dealer  in  works  of  art  showed  very 
little,  yet  had  a  great  collection.  "  You  could  fill  a 
museum,"  I  said,  and  was  told  that  he  did  not  consider 
it  good  policy  to  show  many  things  at  once. 

The  colossal  shops  that  have  sprung  up  in  Paris  of 
late  years  are  beginning  to  employ  architecture  as  an 
advertisement.  The  most  curious  instance  of  this  is  the 


«-*-- 


The  Streets.  223, 

tower  of  the  stables  belonging  to  the  Grands  Magasins 
du  Louvre.  The  stables  are  somewhere  near  the  Ecole 
Militaire,  and  would  of  course  be  very  easily  overlooked 
by  the  public ;  so  to  prevent  this  the  proprietors  have 
erected  a  tall  slender  tower,  in  shape  somewhat  resem- 
bling the  clock-tower  of  the  Houses  of  Parliament.  It 
has  much  gilding  about  the  top,  and  glitters  in  the  sun- 
shine like  its  great  neighbor  the  dome  of  the  Invalides. 
It  is  visible  all  the  way  from  Passy  to  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde,  and  from  many  other  places  besides,  so  that 
thousands  of  people  see  it  every  day,  and  many  of  them 
ask  what  it  is.  The  Printemps  has  established  its  stores 
in  a  new  edifice  with  gilded  domes  at  the  corners,  in 
pursuance  of  the  same  policy.  If  the  great  shop- 
keepers found  it  worth  while  to  spend  money  on  really 
fine  architecture,  instead  of  scattering  it  about  in  hid- 
eous mural  advertisements,  the  change  would  be  most 
beneficial. 

The  magnificence  of  the  great  Parisian  streets  results 
from  the  habit  of  living  in  flats,  as  by  this  system  a 
single  house  produces  a  large  rental,  which  enables  the 
builder  to  give  it  a  magnificent  front.  It  is  obvious 
also  that  the  superposition  of  dwellings  is  very  favor- 
able to  height,  and  height  is  a  great  element  of  nobility 
in  architecture.  There  is,  however,  a  limit  beyond 
which  the  height  of  houses  may  become  injurious  to 
the  effect  of  a  street  by  excluding  light,  and  injurious 
also  to  public  buildings  by  making  them  seem  low. 
There  is  a  tendency  in  London  to  carry  houses  with 
flats  to  an  altitude  that  is  desirable  neither  for  beauty 


224  Paris. 

nor  security.  This  inconvenience  has  been  prevented 
in  Paris  by  police  regulations.  The  Prefect  of  Police  is 
empowered  to  fix  the  height  of  houses. 

It  must,  I  fear,  be  admitted  that  the  system  of  living 
on  flats  is  likely  to  prevail  more  and  more  in  great  cities. 
It  is,  in  fact,  the  only  practical  way  of  reconciling  wide 
streets  with  a  dense  population.  Parisians  look  upon  it 
as  simply  rational,  and  they  can  point  to  their  own  city 
as  evidence  of  the  apparent  spaciousness  which  results 
from  it,  for  many  of  the  streets  and  avenues  are  so 
broad  that  it  seems  as  if  land  were  of  little  value.  The 
excellence  of  the  system  as  regards  external  appearance 
and  facility  of  communication  is  indisputable.  When 
the  population  is  piled  high  it  occupies  less  ground  and 
the  distances  are  reduced.  Streets  that  are  at  the  same 
time  both  broad  and  regular  in  their  breadth  are  always 
preferred  by  coachmen.  On  this  point  I  have  some- 
times taken  the  opinion  of  Parisian  drivers,  and  they 
always  agreed  that  the  new  streets  had  immensely 
facilitated  their  work.  Tramways,  also,  can  be  estab- 
lished in  such  streets ;  in  the  old  narrow  ones  they  are 
impossible.  Broad,  open  spaces  are  favorable  to  public 
health,  by  giving  to  rooms  that  look  out  upon  them  as 
much  light  as  if  they  were  in  the  country,  and  almost 
as  much  air.  Foot-passengers  run  no  risk  of  accident 
except  at  crossings,  while  on  narrow  causeways  the 
risks  are  continual.  The  system,  then,  is  perfect  so  far 
as  the  street  is  concerned,  and  has  some  other  great 
recommendations,  but  it  is  not  altogether  favorable  to 
the  dwelling.  The  dwellings  are  small,  and  the  sense  of 


The  Streets.  225 

confinement  in  them  is  oppressive  to  any  one  who  has 
been  accustomed  to  space  and  liberty.  Rents  are  so 
high  that  every  family  not  positively  rich  is  reduced  to 
shifts  and  expedients.  I  know  a  young  woman  in  the 
hills  of  the  Morvan  who  went  to  Paris  as  a  wet-nurse. 
She  was  in  the  family  of  an  independent  gentleman, 
with  small  or  moderate  means  and  eight  children.  He 
might  have  lived  in  the  country  quite  at  his  ease,  but 
the  attraction  of  Paris  was  too  great  and  he  could  not 
leave  the  capital.  He  had  a  small  appartement  at  a 
great  height,  consisting  of  three  rooms,  a  passage,  and 
a  little  kitchen.  At  night  all  the  rooms,  including  the 
passage,  were  converted  into  dormitories.  The  servants 
slept  in  the  passage.  We  know  what  overcrowding  is  in 
London ;  it  is  a  terrible  evil,  but  it  affects  the  poor  only, 
while  in  Paris  it  affects  the  middle  classes  also.  The 
evil  would  be  still  greater  if  the  Parisians  were  not  so 
excessively  ingenious  in  the  economy  of  space ;  but 
they  are  like  sailors,  in  that  they  make  use  of  every 
available  corner.  A  practical  result,  as  affecting  hospi- 
tality, is  that  the  middle-class  Parisian  can  very  rarely 
invite  a  friend  to  stay  with  him.  The  friend  stays  at 
some  hotel,  and  is  invited  to  the  table  only.  Frequently 
the  dining-room  and  kitchen  are  so  small  that  it  is  found 
more  convenient  to  dispense  hospitality  at  a  restaurant. 
These  are  real  evils,  but  not  perhaps  very  serious  evils ; 
the  most  serious  evils  of  the  system  are  those  that  affect 
old  persons  and  invalids.  People  in  weak  health  often 
remain  confined  in  a  high  lodging  for  months  together, 
when  if  they  lived  nearer  to  the  ground  and  possessed  a 

15 


226  Paris. 

garden  they  might  go  into  it  every  day.  The  intermin- 
able stairs  have  a  deterrent  effect  on  all  except  robust 
visitors,  and  are  a  real  obstacle  to  human  intercourse. 
Perhaps  the  system  of  superposed  habitations  has  not 
yet  attained  its  perfection.  It  may  be  that  in  the  future 
there  will  be  an  extensive  system  of  perfectly  safe  lifts, 
and  it  may  be  possible  to  have  gardens  on  the  roofs. 

The  houses  are  admirably  lighted  from  the  streets, 
and  on  that  side  they  have  plenty  of  air,  but  the  back 
windows  look  upon  narrow  courts,  often  mere  wells, 
which  the  great  height  of  the  houses  makes  gloomy. 
Once,  for  a  fortnight,  I  had  a  room  that  looked  into 
one  of  those  wells,  and  the  effect  was  so  depressing  that 
I  should  have  preferred  the  poorest  cottage  in  the  coun- 
try. In  all  other  respects  the  new  houses  are  a  great 
improvement  on  those  built  just  before  the  time  of 
Louis  Napoleon,  and  beyond  all  comparison  superior 
to  the  picturesque  but  ill-contrived  tenements  of  the 
Middle  Ages. 

There  was  one  characteristic  of  Paris  in  the  early  part 
of  the  present  century  that  has  disappeared  from  the 
new  streets :  the  old  houses  were  so  built,  intentionally, 
that  the  fronts  leaned  back,  sometimes  with  a  curve 
that  was  very  agreeable  to  artists.  When  Girtin  went 
to  Paris  and  made  his  sketches  this  inclination  of  the 
front  was  very  common.  You  find  it  again  in  the  etch- 
ings of  Meryon  and  Lalanne.  In  contemporary  street 
architecture  it  has  been  entirely  abandoned  for  the  per- 
pendicular. There  is  another  change  of  at  least  equal 
importance.  Before  Louis  Napoleon  the  houses  were 


RUE   ST.    ANDRE. 

BV    LEON   LHRRMITTB. 


The  Streets.  227 

generally  of  unequal  height,  but  the  love  of  the  regular 
line  made  Haussmann's  Paris  almost  as  regular  at  the 
cornice  as  at  the  curbstone.  These  changes  no  doubt 
give  a  more  orderly  appearance  to  the  city,  but  they 
detract  sadly  from  its  picturesque  variety.  In  old  Paris 
there  were  three  distinct  and  notable  irregularities: 
those  in  the  tops  of  the  houses,  the  slope  of  the  fronts, 
and  the  ground-plan  of  the  street,  all  of  which  are  now 
replaced  by  straight  lines.  In  some  of  the  new  streets 
the  straight  line  is  exceedingly  wearisome ;  it  is  so  in  the 
Rue  de  Rivoli.  The  reader  will  probably  remember 
the  passage  in  Mr.  Arnold's  essay  on  "  The  Literary 
Influence  of  Academies,"  where  he  criticises  Mr.  Pal- 
grave  for  naming  the  feeble  frivolity  of  the  Rue  de 
Rivoli  along  with  "  the  dead  monotony  of  Gower  or 
Harley  Street,  or  the  pale  commonplace  of  Belgrave, 
Tyburnia,  and  Kensington."  Mr.  Arnold  said  that  "  the 
architecture  of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  expresses  show,  splen- 
dor, pleasure,  —  unworthy  things,  perhaps,  to  express 
alone  and  for  their  own  sakes,  but  it  expresses  them; 
whereas  the  architecture  of  Gower  Street  and  Belgravia 

o 

merely  expresses  the  impotence  of  the  architect  to  ex- 
press anything."  At  the  time  when  these  criticisms  were 
written  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  occupied  a  very  different  rank 
among  modern  Parisian  streets  from  that  which  it  occu- 
pies at  present.  After  the  Boulevard  Malesherbes,  the 
Boulevard  Haussmann,  and  the  Avenue  Friedland,  the 
Rue  de  Rivoli,  especially  from  the  Place  de  la  Concorde 
to  the  Rue  du  Louvre,  appears,  I  should  say,  rather  a 
street  for  business  than  anything  else.  The  architec- 


228  Paris. 

ture  is  decent,  but  plain  in  the  extreme.  There  is  first 
a  simple  arcade,  not  on  pillars  with  pretty  capitals,  but 
on  plain  square  stone  piers.  Above  the  arches  runs  a 
cornice  that  is  a  balcony,  and  carries  a  simple  iron  rail- 
ing. The  windows  of  the  first  floor  have  entablatures 
without  sculpture,  those  of  the  second  have  none.  On 
the  third  floor  runs  another  balcony  without  ornament. 
I  do  not  see  either  frivolity  or  pleasure  here ;  it  would 
be  scarcely  possible  to  design  anything  more  rigid  in 
its  severity.  The  houses  might  be  a  line  of  military 
barracks.  Eastward  of  the  Rue  du  Louvre  the  arcade 
comes  to  an  end,  and  the  fronts  of  the  houses  become 
more  varied.  After  the  construction  of  this  street  the 
architects  seem  to  have  perceived  that  the  mechanical 
repetition  of  the  same  bay,  the  same  arch  with  the  same 
windows  above  it,  might  ultimately  be  carried  too  far; 
so,  happily  for  the  future  of  Paris,  it  was  thought  that 
the  Rue  de  Rivoli  and  two  or  three  little  streets  close  to 
it  were  a  sufficient  supply  of  identical  arches  with  win- 
dows and  cornices  running  to  a  vanishing  point,  like  an 
illustration  in  elementary  perspective. 

The  Avenue  de  1'OpeVa  is  much  finer  than  the  Rue  de 
Rivoli,  and  owes  much  of  its  superiority  to  the  variety 
of  its  architecture.  It  is  really  a  pleasure  to  walk 
quietly  down  one  side  and  study  the  architecture  over 
the  way.  As  I  did  this  once  with  an  old  French  gentle- 
man, who  always  foresees  evil  for  his  country,  he  lamented 
to  me  that  the  taste  for  material  luxury  should  have 
become  so  predominant.  To  me  it  seems  that  a  love 
for  beautiful  architecture  is  of  all  possible  tastes  the 


The  Streets.  229 

least  likely  to  be  injurious  in  a  wealthy  nation.  The 
satisfaction  it  affords  is  purely  artistic  and  intellectual. 
The  carved  stones  are  not  couches  of  ease  to  lie  down 
upon,  nor  dishes  to  pamper  the  appetite ;  they  belong 
to  the  poorest  as  well  as  the  richest  of  the  citizens. 
All  that  can  be  reasonably  objected  to  is  the  waste  of 
wealth  in  the  repetition  of  forms  that  have  no  mean- 
ing, and  that  are  simply  customary.  Even  incongruous 
innovations  may  sometimes  be  useful  as  an  interruption 
to  what  we  see  every  day.  Somebody  has  built  a 
Moorish  house  in  the  Avenue  de  Friedland,  which, 
though  out  of  place  there,  strikes  the  eye  with  a  change 
that  is  not  unwelcome.  The  stately,  separate  mansions 
are  a  great  relief  after  the  continuous  blocks  of  buildings. 
It  is  much  to  be  regretted  that  many  fine  old  houses 
have  disappeared,  but  a  few  are  visible  still.  I  remem- 
ber the  feeling  of  sudden  and  keen  pleasure  with  which 
I  first  came  upon  the  H6tel  La  Valette  on  the  Quai  des 
Celestins.  The  restoration  of  it  had  been  begun  with 
the  intention  of  making  it  a  private  museum,  but  it  has 
changed  hands  and  is  now  a  school.  These  old  houses 
are  seldom  preserved  as  residences,  and  the  best  that 
can  happen  to  them  is  to  be  employed  as  museums, 
like  the  H6tel  Carnavalet,  which  is  to  be  the  future 
lapidary  museum  of  Paris  and  library  of  historical 
records  concerning  the  history  of  the  city.1  This  pro- 
ject was  due  to  Baron  Haussmann,  the  great  destroyer  of 

1  A  description  of  the  Hotel  Carnavalet,  with  an  account  of  the  mu- 
seum, was  published  in  "  L'Art "  for  January  18  and  January  25,  1880. 
The  hotel  is  situated  at  the  angles  of  the  Rue  des  Francs  Bourgeois  and 
the  Rue  Sevigne,  not  far  from  the  Rue  Turenne. 


230 


Paris. 


old  Paris,  who  in  this  instance  appears  as  a  preserver. 
The  architecture  of  the  hotel  is  heavy,  but  would 
appear  much  heavier  if  it  were  not  lightened  by  the 
graceful  sculpture  of  Jean  Goujon.  One  of  the  curiosi- 


-•_^^^i^ 


HOTEL   DE   SENS. 


ties  of  Paris  in  domestic  architecture  is  the  house  on  the 
Cours  la  Reine,  called  the  Maison  de  Franqois  I.  Here 
we  have  an  excellent  example  of  what  ought  to  have 


The  Streets.  231 

been  done  with  many  old  houses.  This  one  was  erected 
near  Fontainebleau  by  Francis  I.,  and  sold  in  1826  to  a 
private  purchaser,  who  had  every  stone  removed  to  Paris 
and  erected  again,  as  we  see.  The  house  is  not  large, 
but  the  size  of  it  is  practically  much  increased  by  its 
having  been  rebuilt  on  a  broad  basement  that  gives  a 
terrace  round  the  building  without  injuring  its  archi- 
tecture in  the  slightest  degree,  while  it  affords  ample 
room  for  kitchens  and  other  offices  and  leaves  the 
beautiful  little  house  itself  for  the  master  and  his 
family.  In  the  front  are  three  arches  with  a  broad 
frieze  above  them.  Above  the  frieze  are  three  win- 
dows, very  large  in  proportion,  as  they  are  divided 
only  by  piers  the  width  of  the  pilasters  in  front  of 
them  and  by  their  own  heavy  mullions  and  transoms. 
Over  the  windows  is  an  entablature,  and  the  whole  is 
crowned  with  a  parapet  which  is  pierced  over  the 
windows,  but  not  elsewhere,  a  refinement  clearly  dem- 
onstrating the  artist-nature  of  the  architect.  There  is 
no  visible  roof,  but  the  need  for  one  is  not  felt.  The 
front  is  rich  in  beautiful  sculpture,  supposed  to  be  by 
Jean  Goujon,  and  including  medallion-portraits  of  royal 
personages.  There  are  also  decorative  trophies  and 
subjects  illustrating  the  vintage. 

Although  the  H6tel  de  Cluny  has  not  been  trans- 
ferred to  another  site  like  the  Maison  de  Francois  I., 
it  has  been  almost  as  wonderfully  preserved.  It  was 
built  at  first  by  the  Abbots  of  Cluny,  but  not  much 
used  by  them.  In  the  early  part  of  the  present  century 
it  was  private  property  let  in  tenements  to  a  number  of 


232  Paris. 

tenants.     It  now  belongs  to  the  State,  a  happy  result 
due  entirely  to  the  public  spirit  of  a  lady,  Madame  du 
Sommerard,  widow  of  the  antiquary  and  collector  who 
had  found  a  home  for  his  treasures  in  the  Hotel  de 
Cluny,  which  he  owned.     Madame  du  Sommerard  sold 
the  whole  together  to  the  State  at  a  loss  to  herself,  as 
she  had  much  more  advantageous  offers.     Thus  it  has 
most  happily  come  to  pass  that  in  the  midst  of  a  very 
busy  part  of  Paris,  close  to   the    great   Boulevards  of 
St.  Germain  and  St.  Michel,  there  is  a  safe  little  island 
of  the  past  amid  the  noisy  torrents  of  the  present.     I 
know  nothing  more  delightful  in  Paris  than  the  peace 
of  the   H6tel  de  Cluny;   and  what  a  wonderful  piece  of 
good  luck  it  is  that  this  beautiful  relic  of  the  fifteenth 
century  should  have  been  quite  close  to  the  most  in- 
teresting remnant  of  Roman  Paris,  so  that  both  can  be 
kept  together  in  the  same  safe  enclosure !     I  have  only 
space  to  point  to  a  few  of  the  chief  characteristics  of 
the  building.     I  do  not  know  of  any  kind  of  domestic 
architecture    quite    so    satisfactory   as   that   when   the 
house  is  isolated.     For  street  architecture  the  modern 
Parisian  is  practically  much  better;    but  for  a  builder 
who  has  but  one  dwelling  to  erect,  and  is  not  restricted 
to  ground-space,  this  fifteenth-century  architecture  is 
the   one   that   best   unites    a   homely    expression  with 
beauty  and  convenience.     The  walls  are  not  too  high, 
the  roof  has  a   comfortable   appearance,   the  building 
is  of  ample  size  yet  not  wearisome   in  vastness;   it  is 
not  a  proud  palace,   but  a   beautiful   home    that   one 
might  live  in  habitually  and  love  with  intense  affection. 


The  Streets.  233 

The  windows  in  the  walls  are  square-headed,  with  mul- 
lions,  transoms,  and  weather-mouldings  that  connect 
the  windows  together.  There  is  a  pierced  parapet,  and 
the  dormer-windows  are  beautifully  finished  with  pinna- 
cles and  finials.  There  are  several  staircase  turrets. 
It  is  beyond  my  province  here  to  speak  of  collections, 
but  those  in  the  Hotel  de  Cluny,  illustrating  the  Middle 
Ages  and  the  Renaissance,  are  as  interesting  as  the  de- 
lightful building  that  contains  them.  The  Louvre  is  the 
place  to  study  sculpture,  but  the  lover  of  carving  (in 
stone,  wood,  and  ivory)  should  go  to  the  Hotel  de 
Cluny.  The  other  beautiful  example  of  fifteenth- 
century  domestic  architecture,  the  H6tel  de  Sens,  also 
built  by  a  great  ecclesiastic  (the  Archbishop  of  Sens) 
for  his  town  residence,  is  remarkable  for  the  great  de- 
velopment of  bartizan  turrets  relatively  to  the  rest  of 
the  building.  I  do  not  know  of  any  edifice  whatever 
in  which  they  are  relatively  so  large ;  but  as  they  are 
enriched  with  panels  and  carving,  the  size  of  them  may 
be  forgiven.  They  have  become  very  familiar  objects 
of  late  years,  as  the  hotel  is  unfortunately  occupied  as  a 
manufactory  of  sweets,  and  the  enterprising  maker  uses 
a  representation  of  the  building  in  all  his  illustrated  ad- 
vertisements. How  little  the  architect  in  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury foresaw  this  special  kind  of  celebrity  for  his  work  ! 
There  is  a  very  curious  example  of  the  modern  love 
of  symmetry  and  order  in  the  arrangements  concerning 
the  outside  of  St.  Germain  1'Auxerrois.  As  you  stand 
under  the  eastern  entrance  to  the  old  courtyard  of  the 
Louvre,  the  front  of  that  church  is  to  your  right  on 


234  Paris. 

the  other  side  the  Rue  du  Louvre,  but  it  is  not  parallel 
with  the  street;  it  inclines  towards  the  east.  It  was  a 
very  perplexing  problem  to  get  any  symmetry  out  of 
that,  but  the  solution  was  found  in  the  construction 
of  another  building  —  a  Mairie  —  inclined  conversely, 
and  in  the  erection  of  a  tower  between  the  two.  St. 
Germain  1'Auxerrois  is  in  Gothic,  and  the  Mairie  is 
in  a  modified  Renaissance ;  yet  the  architect  has  had 
the  art  and  skill  to  give,  in  Renaissance,  an  echo  of  the 
Gothic  ideas  in  the  church,  so  that  there  is  a  strong 
general  resemblance  between  the  Mairie  and  the  church, 
in  spite  of  the  difference  of  style. 

The  vast  increase  of  wealth  and  luxury  in  Paris  dur- 
ing the  present  century  has  led  to  the  construction  of  a 
great  number  of  isolated  dwellings,  many  of  which  would 
deserve  study  as  examples  of  modern  house-architecture. 
They  are  generally  much  superior  to  the  London  villa 
in  elegance  of  design  and  in  the  quality  and  genuine- 
ness of  the  materials  employed.  The  best  of  them  are 
to  be  found  in  the  regions  near  the  Bois  de  Boulogne, 
especially  about  Passy  and  Auteuil.  There  are  some 
particularly  good  examples  on  the  Boulevard  Beausejour 
and  the  Boulevard  de  Montmorency.  The  misfortune 
of  most  residences  of  that  kind  is  that  they  are  almost 
sure  to  be  injured  by  the  too  near  neighborhood  of 
others.  I  remember  a  house  on  the  Boulevard  Beau- 
sejour which  is  of  classic  design  and  in  very  perfect  taste, 
but  it  happens  to  be  low  and  close  to  a  lofty  edifice  that 
crushes  it  completely.  Again,  from  the  variety  of  styles 
adopted,  it  may  easily  happen  that  you  cannot  attune 


THE   MAIRIE   AND   ST.    GERMAIN   L'AUXERROIS. 


The  Streets.  235 

your  mind  to  the  enjoyment  of  one  style  because  a  style 
with  opposite  qualities  is  forcing  itself  upon  your  atten- 
tion at  the  same  time.  Formerly,  when  land  was  cheaper, 
there  were  many  isolated  houses  within  the  fortifications 
which  stood  in  their  own  little  parks,  quite  separated  from 
others  by  groves  of  shady  trees.  These  little  parks  are 
becoming  fewer  every  day.  Where  one  villa  stood  thirty 
years  ago  three  stand  now,  and  sometimes  half-a-dozen. 
Besides  this,  the  old  region  for  villas  —  Auteuil  —  is  be- 
coming a  town  like  Passy.  Enormous  blocks  of  new 
houses,  as  large  and  lofty  as  any  in  the  heart  of  Paris, 
are  rising  on  the  park  lands  and  cutting  them  into 
formal  streets.  An  old  friend  of  mine  had  a  delicious 
retreat  at  Auteuil,  —  a  small  house  in  a  large  space  of 
grass  and  grove.  I  went  to  find  it  this  year,  and  found 
a  block  of  buildings  six  stories  high  and  as  long  as  the 
Hdtel  du  Louvre. 

The  tendency  of  the  French  towards  orderly  and 
methodical  arrangement  is  exemplified  nowhere  more 
strongly  than  in  the  radiation  of  the  avenues  from  the 
Arc  de  1'fitoile.  That  huge  triumphal  arch  is  admirably 
situated  on  its  height,  and  the  ediles  appear  to  have 
determined  that  it  should  be  seen  from  as  many  points 
as  possible.  There  is  no  more  stately  arrangement  in 
any  capital  than  the  wheel  of  streets  that  radiate  from 
that  wonderful  centre.  There  are  twelve  of  them,  three 
of  which  are  a  hundred  metres  wide,  while  seven  of 
them  are  more  than  a  thousand  metres  long,  and  in  five 
directions  there  is  a  clear  view  of  more  than  an  English 
mile.  Such  sort  of  beauty  and  sublimity  as  the  straight 


236  Paris. 

and  broad  street  has  to  offer,  with  its  interminable  rows 
of  trees,  its  vast  causeways,  its  lofty  houses,  has  surely 
been  here  attained,  if  anywhere.  I  admit  the  grandeur, 
the  masterful  thoroughness  with  which  the  idea  has 
been  carried  out,  but  never  felt  the  slightest  desire  to 
live  in  streets  so  totally  wanting  in  homeliness.  Many 
a  snug,  unpretending  old  house  in  some  dull  provincial 
town  has  inspired  me  with  a  sudden,  almost  envious 
affection ;  but  in  these  wearisome  long  avenues  the  best 
thing  seems  to  be  the  tram-car  that  carries  one  well  to 
the  end  of  them. 

A  question  very  nearly  affecting  the  appearance  of 
Parisian  streets  is  at  this  date  (1885)  looming  in  the 
immediate  future.  Paris  is  to  have  internal  railways. 
Commissioners  have  examined  our  London  underground 
system,  and  they  have  also  examined  the  American 
aerial  system.  For  a  long  time  the  decision  was  un- 
certain, although  it  was  confidently  announced  that  the 
American  system  had  been  adopted.  Now,  however,  it 
appears  that  the  three  powers,  the  Government,  the 
Municipal  Council  of  Paris,  and  the  Conseil  GMral  des 
Fonts  et  Chausstes  are  finally  of  one  mind  upon  the  sub- 
ject, and  before  these  words  are  printed  it  is  likely  that 
their  scheme  will  have  received  the  assent  of  the  Cham- 
bers. It  includes  a  great  line  traversing  Paris  from  east 
to  west  on  the  right  bank  of  the  Seine,  and  also  a  great 
line  crossing  this  from  north  to  south.  Besides  these, 
there  will  be  a  curved  line  on  the  left  bank,  and  the 
plan  leaves  room  for  extensions.  The  important  ques- 
tion whether  the  new  metropolitan  railway  is  to  be  sub- 


The  Streets.  237 

terranean  as  in  London,  or  above  the  streets  as  in  New 
York,  is  decided  in  favor  of  a  subterranean  line  for  all 
the  more  crowded  parts  of  the  city,  which  leaves  a  lati- 
tude for  the  aerial  system  elsewhere.  Every  one  who 
cares  for  the  beauty  of  the  most  beautiful  modern 
capital  must  learn  with  apprehension  that  aerial  rail- 
ways will  be  tolerated  in  it  anywhere.  Certainly  there 
is  a  degree  of  architectural  taste  and  knowledge  in  Paris 
that  may  preserve  it  from  the  engineering  monstrosities 
which  England  and  America  tolerate,  and  it  is  prob- 
able that  if  aerial  railways  are  made  at  all,  they  will  be 
designed  with  as  much  art  and  care  as  the  nature  of  the 
erection  will  permit.  Still,  a  row  of  cast-iron  columns 
supporting  an  endless  bridge  in  two  stories  can  hardly 
be  otherwise  than  mechanically  monotonous.1 

Here  may  end  this  series  of  chapters  on  Paris,  with 
regard  to  which  the  writer  is  clearly  aware  that  so  vast 
a  subject  cannot  be  treated  without  many  omissions.2 
He  has  principally  concerned  himself  with  its  artistic 
aspects,  and  has  only  made  occasional  reference  to  the 

1  So  far  as  the  scheme  is  known  hitherto,  the  aerial  railway  is  to  be  a 
double  line  in  which  one  pair  of  rails  will  be  placed  above  the  other. 

2  For  example,  I  have  omitted  the  Palais  Royal,  but  that  is  chiefly  in- 
teresting historically;  the  present  building  is  of  little  architectural  im- 
portance, and  the  little  shops  in  the  square  that  were  such  an  attraction 
in  the  time  of  our  grandfathers  are  eclipsed  by  others  in  the  new  streets. 
I  should  have  liked  to  mention  some  fountains  and  other  things,  but  it  is 
most  difficult  to  compress  accurate  description,  and  criticism  that  gives 
reasons,  within  narrow  limits.     The  Church  of  St.  Germain  des  Pres 
would  have  been  an  excellent  subject  for  a  chapter  if  the  old  Roman- 
esque edifice  had  been  preserved  in  its  integrity,  but  as  that  is  not  the 
case  I  preferred  to  speak  of  churches  fully  representative  of  their  styles. 


238  Paris. 

far  wider  historical  and  social  aspects,  concerning  which 
the  reader  may  find  abundance  of  information  else- 
where. Paris,  as  it  exists  at  present,  is  the  model 
modern  city  that  others  copy,  and  that  London  herself 
is  probably  destined  to  copy  when  the  density  of  popu- 
lation makes  it  more  and  more  necessary  to  pile  many 
human  beings  on  a  ,square  mile,  without  impeding  a 
constantly  increasing  circulation.  What  is  chiefly  to 
be  regretted  in  the  French  capital  is,  that  of  the  beauti- 
ful mediaeval  city  that  preceded  it  so  little  —  and  that 
only  in  isolated  specimens — has  been  preserved  to  our 
own  time.  The  Present  is  merciless  to  the  Past,  and 
merciless  it  has  always  been.  It  may,  however,  be  truly 
said  that  our  age  shows  less  of  this  mercilessness  than 
its  predecessors.  When  they  preserved  things  it  was 
chiefly  from  carelessness  and  indolence;  but  we  pre- 
serve, when  we  think  of  it  to  preserve  at  all,  from  artistic 
or  archaeological  interest.  No  century  but  our  own 
ever  made  intentional  sacrifices  for  the  preservation  of 
ancient  monuments.  The  nineteenth  century  has  made 
some  sacrifices  of  this  kind ;  its  shame  is  that  they  have 
been  so  few. 


University  Press :  John  Wilson  &  Son,  Cambridge. 


University  of  California 

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